


Zephyr

by just_the_fics_maam



Category: Loki - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 00:42:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16902855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_the_fics_maam/pseuds/just_the_fics_maam
Summary: Zephyr (zef’-ur) - A gentle, cool, refreshing breeze.





	1. After School

The last bell of the day rings and you breathe a sigh of relief for one half-second before your next worry comes to settle in: today is Drawing Club, the unofficial gathering of the handful of artists in this terrible, tiny high school, and you really want to go, but you don’t have a ride home. Getting home is not a matter of walking a few blocks or catching a bus; here in the boonies of South Carolina, getting anywhere means having a car, and for a broke seventeen year-old that means being in a permanent state of being trapped.

And you are trapped. Trapped in this town, trapped in this school, trapped in this desk until the meatheads who block the aisle with their giant feet and their sprawling backpacks decide it’s time to stand up and finally get out of your way. No one ever gets out of your way. You feel sometimes like you don’t even have a body, like you’re made of smoke rather than skin and bones.

The football boys final clear out and you sling your pack over your shoulder and push out into the crowded hallway. You push the worries out of your mind because fuck it, you need Drawing Club today. Those people are your only sanity in this godforsaken place. Lilith, a tiny dark-haired girl with skin so pale it’s almost translucent, Devin and Damien, twin brothers with shocks of orange hair. And you.

“Teresita!” calls Mrs. Hillman from the doorway of her classroom as you try to duck past. “Have you turned in your practice essay for your college applications yet?”

“No, I…”

“You said you would have it to me by today, now, and I still don’t see it.”

“I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“I’ll need it by tomorrow for you to still get half credit, okay?”

“Okay,” you mumble, pushing past her. Great. One more thing to worry about. Your stomach clenches and you push forward past the crowds, down the back hallway and to the right.

The smell of oil pastels greets you and you are finally in the fine arts wing. Situated in the back by the janitor’s closet, out of sight and out of mind, the way the school would like to keep you. This is a town ruled by football and low aspirations; the best you are supposed to hope for as a girl in this town is to marry someone whose father has a contractor business that he will pass on to his son.

Lucky for you, this has never been something you had to worry about. Boys don’t reject you, they just don’t see you. You have had a few crushes here and there, but there is not much to catch your interest here. The boys you like are mostly older, the ones who have grown out of the phase where they smell like old socks and talk about blow jobs all the time. Unfortunately, these men are also much too old, and not looking for someone as young and nondescript as you feel.

You reach the door, turn the handle and walk in.

You breathe a sigh of relief. This is your space. The tiny closet that passes for an art room. The walls are covered in murals left by the graduating class five years ago. You recognize some of the names signed there: older siblings of students who are still walking the halls, and one that you pause and touch, taking a heavy breath. Trey Donovan. You trace your finger over the name, try not to remember that terrible day when you were twelve, when the whole town was rocked by what his parents found when they came home. A shiver runs up your spine.  
“Sita, come on!” you hear Devin call, and you walk to the open window. The two brothers and Lilith are sitting on the grass outside the room. They wave to you. “Come on out!” they call. You grab your pencils and your new sketchbook – thick and premium, it cost almost twenty dollars, but worth every penny. You love the paper, both rough and smooth at the same time, the way your pencil smooths over it, showing every subtle gradation between light and shadow.

Outside you settle into the grass with your friends. You chat and laugh, working and reworking the line of the shoulder and neck. You have been working on figures lately, and you already sketched the outline of this one. Now, you are trying to give it some movement on the page, to put something human into it. Sometimes, you think you are doing very well, and other times, like now, it just looks like a stupid stick figure, the blocky, ham-fisted scribblings of a preschool child.

“Aaaauuuugggghhh,” you say, about to tear the page from your sketchbook.

“Patience, dear,” says Damien.

“Be calm now,” says Devin.

Lilith says nothing, but she smiles at you, turning from her intricate drawing of Ophelia, tiny white flowers tangled in the hair of a drowning woman.

Finally Lilith speaks. “Being an artist means being unhappy with your work,” she says. “It’s what drives you to continue.”

You heave a sigh. “You’re right. You’re all right. I just feel…”

“Tell us how you feel,” say Damien and Devin in unison.

You laugh. “I just feel like somehow this year is going too quickly, but at the same time I feel like time is standing still. I want so much to get out of here, but at the same time I am terrified of what is going to happen when I go.”

“I hear you,” says Devin, throwing an arm around your shoulder. “Believe me, I hear you.” You know he feels your pain. Gay and artistic in the rural south is not a good combination; Damien knows and takes it in stride, but their parents are another thing altogether. And other parents too: some students have actually been forbidden by their parents to talk to Devin. “Too swishy,” say the fathers, curling their lips. “God wants men to be men, and women to be women, not some kind of half in-between messed up mess.”

Devin pretends not to care, but you see the deep cuts it puts in his spirit. His ink drawings are his lifeline, too, and he wants to get into sculpture when he gets out into his real life next year. You are awed by his talent, and you love to see his work. You consider him one of your best friends, if not the very best.

Your parents don’t forbid you from hanging out with him. In fact, they do not forbid much at all. They are barely even a presence in your life; you live with your father. He is distracted, depressed. He hasn’t been the same since your mother left. And your mom is so caught up in building her New Perfect Life with Richard (whom you delightedly call “Dick” every chance you get) that she doesn’t have time to walk you through the paces of surviving teenagehood. You mainly take care of yourself, all your own cooking, cleaning, and life choices. Lucky for them, you don’t tend toward drugs or drinking or promiscuity. They don’t even know how lucky they are that you drown your sorrows in drawing.

A rumble rolls across the sky and you look up as the clouds push together and darken. A few drops fall.

“Oh, shit,” says Damien, springing to his feet. You gather your things quickly and run into the covered alcove by the door. You lean in and grab for the door, but it won’t budge. Locked. With all your things inside.

“Well, fuck,” you say. The rain starts to pour. You feel the old anxiety in the pit of your stomach, the oh-god-what-in-the-world-am-I-going-to-do. But no. Not today. You are not giving into this today. You set your sketch materials down in the back corner of the alcove. “I’ll be right back,” you say, and you run around the front of the building. Somewhere there will be an open door. You can’t be the only ones still here.

You are soaked by the time you reach the corner of the building, but you press on. At this point, there is no point in trying to stay dry. Your feet slip in the red clay mud, and you reach down and take off your sandals. You try the janitor’s entrance. Locked. The office. Locked, of course. The door to the band room, one of your last hopes, miraculously opens. You push into the room, dark and cool, the smell of brass and woodwinds and stacks of dusty paper music. You run quickly across the dim room, heading for the door so you can get back through the hallway to your friends. As you pass the instrument storage room that occasionally doubles as a practice room, you hear the soft strains of an old Fender, plugged in and dialed down to low. A few chords.

You peek in through the tiny window in the door, and  you see someone, a boy you have never seen before. This is unheard of in this town, in this little school: every new face causes a ripple that lasts for weeks. He has long black hair, past his shoulders. His back is facing you, and his pale, slender arms cradle the shiny guitar. He is leaning over it, running a pick over the strings almost tenderly. He puts the pick in his mouth, adjusts one of the tuning pegs, then strums it again.

Suddenly he looks up, and his eyes meet yours, brilliant and emerald. You feel transfixed by his startled gaze. For a moment you don’t know whether to stay or run, when a clap of thunder rumbles overhead, buzzing the ceiling tiles and making the chalk in the metal tray along the chalkboard rattle and dance. The small light in the practice room goes dark; the hallway lights turn off. The power is out, most likely a transformer struck by lightning. Out here, it will mean hours of darkness, and in the morning, stale humid heat will fill the rooms not cooled by air conditioning in hours.

You hear a stumble, a muffled curse, the knocking of brass instruments together and the doorknob of the practice room opens.  
You feel him next to you rather than seeing him. Silently you feel your way to his hand, grab it, and pull him toward the faint grey light of the hallway, toward your friends who must wonder by now what has happened to you. He follows you silently, his hand in yours as cold as ice.


	2. The Ride Home

Outside in the alcove you see your friends huddled, their backs turned to the wall of rain that falls a wall of rain blocks you in. The air is close and hot as you hold the door open for them. They walk past the boy, their eyes trailing up to his face, then yours, asking the silent question.  _Who is this?_

You run to the art room and grab your things, and as you turn to leave, Devin stops you at the door. “You need a ride? We have the truck today.”

“Oh, actually,” says Damien, “I’m sorry, Sita, but I told Lilith we’d take her home since her house is right by mom’s office.”

“Oh, damn,” says Devin. “That’s right. Normally somebody could ride in the back, but not in this.” He gestures out to the rain. “You have a way home?”

“It’s fine,” you say. “I can call my Dad.” Your stomach sinks at the thought of explaining yourself, getting the speech about planning ahead, and then sitting for another hour and a half outside while you wait for him to come for you after work.

“Okay, if you’re sure?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Thanks.” You smile. You walk back into the building to get to the front door, to wait under the covered archway where Dad can see you more easily when he arrives. A cold hand trails down your arm, grasps your hand. You turn quickly, your heart pounding.

“Hey,” says the boy.

“Oh, hey,” you say. “Do you need a ride, too? I might be able to get my Dad to drive you somewhere. You’d have to wait a while with me, though.”

“Oh, no,” he says, letting go of your hand.

 _Of course not. What a dumb thing to suggest_. “I don’t mean that you would have to wait  _with_  me,” you say. “Just…”

“No, no,” he says, smiling. “I mean, I have a car. I can take you somewhere if you want. I can drive you home.”

“Oh,” you say, your mind twisting and calculating the risk. You squint your eyes and look at him.

“You’re wondering if I’m a serial killer,” he says, smiling.

“No, I… I’m just wondering how you could appear here in this tiny school, but I haven’t heard anything about you.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re a small town, and a small school. Everybody knows everything about each other.”

“I keep to myself,” he says. “I’ve only been here a week.”

“A  _week_? How did you stay hidden for so long?”

He laughs. “I just sit in the back of class. Sometimes I’m invisible.”

“Me too,” you say. He looks up, alarmed. “Metaphorically speaking, of course.”

“Oh. Oh. Of course,” he says, laughing again. “So? A ride?”

“Sure,” you say. “But I’m texting my friends to tell them where I am. They’ll know if you murder me.”

He laughs. “Deal.”

**

You follow him to the parking lot. The rain is still falling steadily, though it is a little less of a deluge than it was a few minutes ago. You have three copies of the school paper unfolded and held over your head as a sort of makeshift umbrella. The boy walks ahead of you, through the rain, as if it’s nothing.

An interesting scent comes from him, a sort of cool, icy evergreen smell. It is delightful. You have always had a weakness for the masculine scent of aftershaves and soaps and shaving cream. He stops in the parking lot and you can’t believe your eyes. A dark blue Mustang, what looks to be a ’65, sits in the corner spot. He pulls a set of keys from his pocket.

“Oh, my God,” you say.

He looks up, the corners of his mouth twitching up. His eyebrows raise. “You like the car?”

“Um, yeah,” you say, willing yourself to calm down. This is the car,  _the_  car, that you have always wanted, and now you are about to get in. He walks to your side of the car, unlocks the door, and opens it. When you sink down into the ivory leather seat, he takes the sodden newspapers, folds them, and sticks them under his arm.

“Watch your hands,” he says, and slams your door shut.

As he walks around the car to the driver’s side, you take a deep breath. It smells amazing in here. Leather, and that same brisk scent you smelled earlier, like pine and fresh snow. Or at least, what you would imagine fresh snow to smell like. You have only seen snow twice in your life. It never snows here. You lean across and pull up the door lock on the driver’s side just as he reaches for the handle.

“Thank you,” he says, sliding into his seat and starting the ignition. He puts the car in reverse and then stretches his arm across the top of the seat behind you, turning to look backwards. He backs out of the space and speeds out to the road, the tires spitting gravel as he goes.

**

Out on the main highway, you stop at a red light. “First things,” he says softly. “What’s your name? Did I hear them call you ‘Sita’?”

“Teresita,” you say. “But I go by Sita with my friends.”

“Oh, can I call you Sita then? Am I your friend?”

You look at him. The edge of a grin plays on his lip again.  _What does it mean?_

“Yes,” you answer. “But only if you tell me your name, too.”

“Of course! Of course.” He laughs. “I’m Logan. Logan Keynes…  _the third_. Isn’t it terrible?”

“Not too bad,” you say. “Okay, yeah. I mean, ‘the third’?”

“Yep.”

“What do you go by?”

“I like Lo,” he says. “It’s a little weird, but it suits me.

“I like it,” you say, and then you settle into an awkward silence. You want to thank him, but you’re not sure how. Suddenly you feel like your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth.

“Where am I going?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

He laughs. “I mean, where do you live?” He leans down, shifts the car into fifth gear. What is it about men driving a manual transmission? The car growls and floats along the road, humming at its optimum RPM.

“A little ways out,” you say. “Down by the beach, almost.”

“Oh, wow, okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not, it’s not a big deal, I just don’t know how to get there.”

“I can show you. Just keep going this way, and in about six miles or so we’ll get to the railroad crossing, and you take a left, and it’s down that way.”

“Sounds good,” he says, looking over at you. A shiver runs through you.

“I didn’t know these old Mustangs had air conditioning,” you say, hugging your arms to yourself. You are drenched and now cold, the blast of cold air chilling your skin.

He looks at you suddenly, alarm in his eyes. He says nothing. You look back at the dashboard and see nothing there – no vents. “Oh,” you say. “Maybe it’s the speed.”

He smiles. “This is a fast car,” he says, gunning the engine slightly. The car jumps forward, skims along the wet road a bit faster.

He turns left onto the beach road and you continue down. “About five minutes this way,” you say.

He nods, smiling.

“So, you play guitar?”

“Yes, yes,” he says. “I used to play all the time where I used to live. I just finally found that old amp in the band closet, and I had to try it out. After school nobody bothers you.“

“Is your guitar all right there overnight?”

“Sure,” he says. “The closet locks. No big deal. Better than taking it out in the rain.”

You drive in silence for a moment.

“So tell me, Sita,” he says. You love the way he says your name, soft and careful. “What do people here do for fun?”

You laugh. “Well, most people drink and drive their enormous trucks around in mud bogs, and drink some more, and then try not to have sex with each other.”

He cuts his eyes suddenly over to you, and you blush, hot.

“And you?”

“Oh, I mostly—“

A bright flash fills the car, and suddenly he slams on the brakes, and the car enters a slide, flying sideways and down the grassy shoulder of the road. Finally it drags to a stop.

“What was  _that_?” you ask.

He is breathing hard, his face set like steel. “Nothing,” he says. “A dog darted in front of the car.”

“Oh.” Your heart is pounding.

“I’m sorry,” he says, lightly touching the top of your hand with his cold fingers.

“It’s all right,” you say. “You handled it well.”

He looks at you for a long moment, a slow smile playing on his lips, a concerned mark showing between his brows. He restarts the car, still looking at you. He shifts it into gear and drives back onto the road. The rest of your drive is quiet. After the jolt of adrenaline, you feel very tired.

**

Lo pulls the car into your driveway, down the long sandy path between pines and palmettos. He pulls to a stop by the kitchen door, and you step out. The rain has finally stopped, and the air is almost chilly, a grey mist covering everything. “Thanks,” you say. “I appreciate it.”

He looks shyly at you, smiling. “Bye,” he says.

“Bye, Lo,” you say.

He smiles. “Sita, Sita, Teresita. There. I said it three times, so now I won’t forget it.”

You can’t help but feel that there is some sort of enchantment in the way he says your name. From his lips it sounds like some sort of magical incantation. You slam the door and raise your hand in a half wave. You walk to the mailbox and then to the kitchen door, watching him do a three-point turn and glide out of the driveway. As he reaches the road, you see to your horror that your father is just pulling in, his grey Chevy lumbering into the curve. He nearly runs head-on into the Mustang, then pauses while Lo inches around him. You see Lo raise his hand in a wave to your father before he speeds off, and your stomach clenches in that old familiar anxiety.  _Oh, the questions you will have to answer tonight._  You turn and run into the house and up the stairs and into the shower. The hot running water will save you from interrogation for at least another twenty minutes.


	3. Lunch

You walk slowly into the kitchen, toweling off your hair, dreading the conversation with each step.

“Sita,” says your father.

“What, Dad.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Sita, you know how I feel about boys in fast cars.”

You roll your eyes. “He just gave me a ride home,” you say, folding your arms.

“That’s how it starts,” he says.

“That’s how  _what_  starts, Dad?”

He lets out a heavy breath. “I want to know who this boy is and who his parents are, and I don’t want to ever see him at this house again when I’m not here. Is that understood?”

You sigh. “Yes, sir.” Deferring to him is the quickest way to get him to leave you alone. You turn to go.

“Just a minute, young lady,” he says.

You stop and turn back to him.

“Who is he?” Dad asks.

“I actually don’t really know much about him, Dad. His name is Lo. Logan. He just started at school a week ago, and I got stuck in the rain, and Devin and Damien didn’t have room in their truck, so he offered to give me a ride home. That’s it.”

His voice gets very quiet, very precise: “Why did you take a shower right after he left?”

“Oh,  _God_ , Dad! Are you being serious?”

“Your sheets are rumpled.”

“ _That’s because I never make my bed_ ,” you hiss. “You can go feel it right now. The bed’s cold. No one’s been in it. I just got home. Lo didn’t even come in the house, Dad. He just let me out in the driveway.”

He looks at you, his gaze cold. “You just need to be careful,” he says. “Boys that age… they take liberties whenever they can.”

“I am ALWAYS CAREFUL,” you say, and you run back up the stairs, slamming the door behind you. Little does he know that no boy ever tries to “take liberties” with you, even if you want him to.

Even if you want Lo.

**

The next morning you rise early and pull on your jeans, t-shirt, and thick lug-sole boots. It is a day for conquering, and you need all the strength you can get. You love the way you feel in these boots. Powerful. In charge. Decisive. It is, however, difficult to tiptoe down the stairs in them, but you do your best. Turn on the percolator, scrape some butter across a piece of toast, eat and twist your hair up into a messy bun. It is barely light outside when you reach the bus stop.

You take a seat in the back corner where no one will sit next to you. One benefit of a rural bus stop is that it takes over an hour to get to school; that is over an hour to be mostly alone with your thoughts, to sketch, to daydream. Today, though, you are making notes for your college admission application. You get stuck on the first line, though.

Your mother and father, actually united on this one thing, want you to go to USC in Beaufort. “It’s close to home,” they say, as if that matters to you at all. As if the one thing you want more than anything isn’t to get the hell away from here as fast as you can.

Writing an application letter to USC is one kind of thing, but writing a letter to the real place you want to go… well, that is less about words and more about passion, and pictures, and… you’re getting ahead of yourself.

You decide just to write the letter for USC and deal with the rest later. You scratch out the essay as neatly as you can in the bumping, galloping bus, and tuck it into your bag. You drift off to sleep against the metal window frame, waking up when the bus’s brakes hiss at the school bus ramp.

You get out and stamp down the steps, grateful to be done with the essay, and more grateful for your boots.

All morning long it is a string of stressful events, but you find yourself navigating them with more grace than usual. An Algebra II test that you barely studied for, but you feel like you understood most of the questions. An in-class essay for English, and you turn in your college essay at the same time.  _Done and done_. A ridiculous test in a class called “Life Management” in which you fill in multiple-choice bubbles about how to make a budget and balance a checkbook.  _Spend less than you take in? Plan ahead when you want to purchase a luxury item?_   _Avoid added fees by paying all bills on time?_

All of the above.

By lunch you aren’t hungry at all, but rather you just want to be alone with your thoughts and your sketchbook. You grab a root beer and slide off down the hall to the auditorium, empty now. Light filters in the windows, and the old wooden floor creaks as you move across it. The rows of seats, built before World War II, look like church pews and you walk through them, imagining them filled. You are a one-woman show, a tragicomedy about wasted youth and yearning, driving ambition with no place to go.

You are determined to finish your portfolio and send it off for review, just to see what they say. It might be ridiculous to hope, but you have to try. You haul your bag and yourself up onstage, crack open your root beer, and lean against the proscenium, sketching and smudging at your figure study.  You need at least three dozen pieces, and so far you have fifteen, although a few of them you are not pleased with.

Fifteen minutes in, you have worn your main pencil down to a nub and you fish through your bag for your sharpener. Not there. You sigh heavily, wishing you still carried the penknife that your uncle gave you back when you were only ten. Your mother had objected, but he said every girl needs to learn how to use a knife, and he had handed over the antique knife, the handle encased in yellowing ivory, and showed you how to carefully open and close it. You stopped carrying it with you last year when people’s bags were being searched at school, things as harmless as screwdrivers and bottle openers being confiscated from their lockers. You didn’t want to lose that precious knife.

But it would be useful now. You sigh and gather your things, pull on your hoodie against the overzealous air conditioning, and walk back into the main building in search of an open classroom with a pencil sharpener. You duck into one of the two History classrooms, and thankfully it is open. You grind your pencils to points and slip them back in your bag. Your legs carry you farther down the hall, and when you pass the band room you can’t hold your curiosity back. You stick your head into the room, half expecting to see Lo there in the practice room, bent over his Fender again, strumming. He is not there, of course, but as you walk closer you see something that surprises you: his guitar still is. You assumed he would run here first thing and grab it. You check the doorknob of the practice room and find it unlocked. It seems unsafe to leave such a nice instrument unsecured like that. You stand for two whole minutes, trying to decide what to do. You don’t know anything about his schedule, so you can’t find him even if you want to. You run your finger down the neck of the guitar, feeling the thin, steely strings.

“What are you doing?” says a voice behind you and you turn, startled, letting out a yelp. It’s Lo, standing, his back arched, hands hovering at his sides like he is ready to fight.

He sees that it is you, and suddenly his face changes.

“I was just checking on it, to see if it was okay. To see if you were okay,” you say.

He swallows, looks at his feet, then looks away, squinting out the window.

“I’m sorry.” Hot tears are springing to your eyes and you push past him, out to the room and the hallway to get away before he sees them.

He catches your wrist. “Sita,” he says. You turn and look at him, wrench your arm away. You are crying now in earnest. You can’t stand to be called out, or corrected. You can’t help the tears now. You wipe your tears and your nose with your sleeve. He turns to you, reaches out and wipes your tear away with one cool fingertip. “I’m sorry,” he says. He slowly smooths your hair, drags the back of his hand down your cheek, softly.

Your heart hammers in your chest. No one has ever touched you this way before. You feel transfixed; frozen in space, yet somehow also warm and liquid.

The bell rings. You stand still, staring at him, into his blazing green eyes. His shapely, thin lips smile faintly, and his dark brow arches. “How eager are you to get back to class?” he asks, reaching down and picking up the guitar. He moves toward the band room door, holds it open for you.

“Not at all,” you say. You walk through the doorway and push quickly out of the building into the bright, blinding sunlight. You run beside him, silent except for the sound of your feet pounding in time across the dry field of sandspurs and scrub grass. You are panting by the time you reach his car. He leans into the backseat, carefully lays his guitar across the leather bench seat. You stand at the passenger’s side, your heart pounding, your spirit dancing and bumping along, bursting with laughter.

“No,” he says, smiling, shaking his finger at you. He opens the driver’s side door and throws the keys at you. “You’re driving,” he says, and laughs as you miss the keys. Your hands shake as you reach down to the gravel and pick them up, still warm from his pocket. You run quickly around the back of the car and slide into the driver’s seat and it seems to hold you, to caress you. You start the ignition, put the car in reverse, and back out of the space. You pause for a moment before pushing the car into first, idling in the parking lot, and look over at Lo. Time is suspended. His eyes are full of you; his smile weaving boyish laughter with mischief. There is something there, swirling in those ancient-looking eyes, something that you cannot name. Your blood flows faster in your veins.

“Drive, Sita,” he says, softly.

The car jumps forward as you let off the clutch and stamp down on the accelerator with the thick sole of your boot; you feel as if you are leaving your whole past, the burden of your entire self behind. The cold air blows your hair back and you race down the long thin road, the sound of Lo’s laughter echoing all around as if there were six of him, instead of just the one.


	4. Storm

“Oh, dear God, that smells good,” says Lo as you pull the lid off the steaming pot of potatoes, corn, sausage, and shrimp. You drain the water off into the sand at your feet and spread the hot contents of the pot on a ripped-open paper bag you carried from the house.  You look at him across the modest mound of food, his black hair blowing gently to the side in the salty breeze. He looks off to the water, then back at the food. “Okay, tell me how to do this,” he says, reaching in and grabbing a shrimp, still in its shell.

“Ahhh!” He drops the shrimp, still scalding hot from the boiling water.

“Well, first you wait until it cools off,” you say, smiling.

“Ha ha,” he says. He gathers his legs to his chest, wraps his arms around them.

“This is a really nice place,” you say.

“It is. It really is. I’m glad my family picked it.”

“Who do you live with here?”

“Normally, my uncle. He’s away right now. Sometimes I am with my parents and my brother, but they don’t… they don’t live down here.” He sees your puzzled face, leans in and elbows you playfully. “It’s kind of weird,” he says. “It works out all right, though.”

You take this as your cue to not ask any more questions. You look out to the water, a beautiful slate blue past the rustling palmettos. It is the low country at its finest, the understated rivers of grass that lead out to the marsh, then to the ocean. Everything is gentle here. Slower than usual.

In fact, this day has seemed to stretch on forever, not that you are complaining. You and Lo had sped far away from the school, down the road toward the coast. You rolled the windows down, felt the wind in your hair and the sun on your left arm as you hung it out the window. The pine trees sped by, then turned to scrub, then palmettos, then a waving sea of grass. Beside you, Lo watched the road, a strange calm on his face behind his aviator sunglasses.

At a seafood stand by the water you stopped, bought a pound of head-on shrimp, fresh from the fishing boats. In the fridge at Lo’s house you had found the rest – new potatoes, thick spicy sausage, and two ears of corn. You hauled all the food and a beat-up old lobster pot half full of water down to the sloping backyard while Lo watched, fascinated, and built a fire under the cooking grate. After the potatoes were slightly tender, you added the rest, dropping the shrimp in just a few minutes before you carried the pot off the heat.

The property is empty except you and Lo; it was a wide and sprawling space.

“This used to be a plantation,” says Lo, stretching his long legs in front of him.

“Really,” you say, a shiver snaking up your spine.

“It was fairly small, according to what they told my uncle, but this part here, where we are, it was a place where they grew rice.”

“Hmm. Lo?”

“Yeah?”

You look around the wide, flat grassy yard, out into the swamps. “Do you believe in spirits?”

“You mean, is this place haunted?”

“Well, that is what I was wondering. But in general, though. Do you believe in all of that? Spiritual things? Supernatural things? A world past this one that we can see?”

He laughs, a short, private laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “Definitely.”

“Have you ever seen a ghost?”

“Not a ghost, no,” he says. “But I know there’s more than this world here.”

“I go back and forth,” you say. “Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t.”

He looks at you strangely. “I feel the same about this world,” he says. “Sometimes I’m not sure if it’s real.”

You laugh. “I know what you mean,” you say.

“But you’re real, aren’t you, Sita?”

You look at him and smile, the sea breeze catching your hair. “Yeah. I’m real.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be,” you say.

He looks down at his hands in his lap, then back up at you. “Can we try again?”

“Try what again?”

He laughs. “The shrimp.”

“Sure, sure.” You reach forward and grab one off the paper, hand one to him. “Hold it up like this,” you say. Then grab off the head.”

“How?”

“Just like this. Just pop it off. Don’t be scared,” you tease.

“Ugh… There. Like that?”

“Exactly right. Now, suck out the brains.” You slurp the shrimp head and laugh at his disgusted expression.

“Really?”

“Yes! It’s the best part. Don’t be a chicken, Lo.”

He looks at you intently. “If you’re lying to me, Sita…”

“No! I’m not. Besides, I just did it. Come on. I’ll do another one, at the same time as you.”

“All right…” He does not sound sure.

“One… Two… Three!” You pop the shrimp head off and drink the rich, briny unction inside. Lo leans forward, does the same, and then laughs as the juice streams down his fingers.

“Aghh!” he says. “So messy!” He laughs. “It’s good, though.”

“It is.” You hand him the roll of paper towels and a plate, heap your own high with the delicious food. You eat in silence for a moment, squeezing lemon over everything as you go.

“So, aside from a cook, Sita, what are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“What are you about? What’s your thing?”

“I… draw,” you say.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes.”

“Are you any good?”

“I think so,” you say. “It’s hard to tell. But it’s fair to say I’m pretty good.”

He is quiet.

“What about you?”

“Can I see your drawings sometime?” he asks. “You can say no.”

“Yes! Yes, definitely,” you say. “I have my book with me all the time. After we eat I’ll show you.”

His eyes widen and he smiles. “I’d like that,” he says.

“So, what about you? Don’t avoid my question.”

“Guitar,” he says. “That’s almost it.”

“That’s the thing for you?”

“I love it. When I’m playing I forget about everything else.”

“How long have you been playing?”

“Well, off and on? Since I was little. Maybe five or six or so. As soon as I was big enough to hold the lute.” He smiles.

“The lute?”

“Uh… you know. The guitar. The instrument. As soon as I could carry it around, I would play it all the time. My mother used to call me the snake charmer, because everything would just stop and listen to me play – children, animals, adults – it didn’t matter.”

“Do you miss her?”

He looks down at his lap, takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer. It’s none of my business.”

“I miss her a lot, actually. I miss my whole family.”

“Yeah?”

“But today I miss them less.” A warm wind rushes in from the water, blowing his hair out from his head. The sun shines full on his face. He puts his plate down, reaches his arms out. “Come here,” he says, his voice barely audible.

You move to him, finding a space leaning against him, wrapping your arms around his thin frame, resting your ear on his chest. You hear his heart beating faintly, a constant  _wub wub wub._  He draws his arms around your back, and you feel a strange sort of calming comfort wash over you. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

His fresh scent, like the sea breeze in the pines, is almost overwhelming when you are this close to him. He rests his chin on your head, then gently raises your chin with the tips of his fingers until you are looking right into his eyes. He touches his lips to yours, and the effect is stronger than you imagined it would be. You feel a sort of dizzying, mind-numbing warmth spread up from the pit of your stomach and out into your limbs, to the tips of your fingers. You reach up and run your fingers hesitatingly through his hair. It is soft, slipping over your hand like strands of silk.

You feel frozen in time, suspended in the air. He pushes closer to you, moves his mouth slightly, parting your own lips with his.  You feel almost faint, a jittery weakness in your knees.

A cold wind blows suddenly, and you turn to look up at the sky, where a thunderhead is building directly over you. He keeps his eyes closed, holds you more tightly to him, and finally looks up at the sky. Annoyance crosses over his face as the cloud rumbles. It flicks a finger of lightning down in a stand of trees only a few hundred yards away.

The crack of thunder is almost instantaneous, and the slightly pinkish tinge of the lightning flash seems to hang in the air. You gather your things in your arms and start to run for shelter, your heart pounding and panic in your throat. You turn back and see Lo, standing on the small rise where you had been sitting with him. He looks up at the sky, points his finger, and shouts something that is swallowed up by the swirling wind. He stands still, staring at the cloud.

“Lo, come on!” you yell. “It’s not safe! Come on!”

He raises both arms over his head, and you hear it then, a sort of primal scream from his throat, raised to meet the intensity of the thunder, rumbling now so loudly that the ground beneath your feels like it is vibrating.

His fists raised above his head, Lo stands firm. You drop your things and move toward him, ready to grab his arm and pull him forcibly to the house. People are struck by lightning all the time out on the golf courses, and the aftermath is never pretty.

He slowly lowers his fists and then, suddenly, the air changes. A gust of wind blows from the opposite direction, taking the clouds with it. The thunder stops, almost abruptly. Looking up, you see the edge of the sun peeking out, and the light turns from a menacing grey to a bright golden apricot, washing over the whole landscape as far as you can see.

He looks at you, carefully marking your expression. You can only stare, look up at the sky where the clouds were, look around you at the gentle swell of the land from the water up to the trees on one side and the cottage behind you. You walk toward him, a thousand questions on your lips.

He holds you by the shoulders, then wraps his arms around you tightly.

And then the questions are gone, replaced only by the memory of his kiss, of his hands raised in defiance, driving every cloud away.


	5. Sketch

You zip up your hoodie and hunch down low over your sketchbook. The only light in the house comes from the small lamp on the dining table, its pool of light reaching over the broad, flat plane of paper as you draw, erase, smudge, redraw.

You are trying to capture his face. The lines of Lo’s face, the thing about him that is boyish, that is easy enough to trace with the silvery graphite. The other thing, though, the old thing, the ancient thing, it eludes and frustrates you.

You tried to ignore this inspiration, this compulsion to draw, but you couldn’t resist it. You saw Lo in a different way on the drive home in the slow-burn of the sunset, the fading golden light on the lines and angles of his face, and you knew you had to draw it, had to capture what it felt like in that moment as he turned to you and smiled, reached down and held your hand all the way until the end of the beach road when he had to shift down to second to turn the corner. You walked into the house, danced through the kitchen in your socks, made tea, ate dinner, tried to sit and watch television, but nothing could erase that image of him, and it seemed to command you to draw it. Just then your father had come home, fortunately late from the office so he didn’t know to ask you where you had been, although he did mention once that you “seemed happy” and his tone was more suspicious than pleased. After Dad fell asleep you stood at your bedroom window, looking out at the yard bathed in bright blue moonglow. You cracked your window, felt the sea breeze blowing in through the pines all the way from the sea, and you felt it grip you, his spirit, the artistic command, and you knew that tonight you would not be able to resist it. You moved downstairs to the wide wooden table, set up your things, and got to work.

By 3:30am the sketch is complete, or as done as it ever will be. You let your mind wander as you sketched, lost in your own world, and began – just barely – to capture that old wizened look in his eye, the slight weariness that hangs on the edge of his boyish energy. You should be weary yourself, up this late and totally spent, your heart poured out into this pencil sketch, but you feel strangely energized, wide awake, your spirit buzzing with inspiration, with laughter, with something like lightness and mischief.

It is an unfamiliar feeling for you. You tend to be quiet, a bit melancholy. You stand in the back and watch, observe life going on around you, playing in the edges of the water but never diving in. But with Lo today, something was different. He tossed you the keys and you were in the driver’s seat, and it was more than just steering that beautiful Mustang toward the eastern horizon; you were driving more than that. You were piloting your own life somehow, now. You felt the power rumbling in your hands like the growl of the Mustang’s inline six buzzing through the gearshift to your fingers. You feel it now and it makes you feel as if you might burst, all alone, in the middle of the night. You tiptoe to the kitchen door, unlock it and close it silently behind you. You run out into the middle of the yard, arms stretched over your head, reaching up to the light of the moon overhead, past its zenith now, fading just below the trees on the western edge of the property. Something has changed. Something has begun. Something is different now.

Something will never be the same.

**

At lunch, you sit in the hallway next to Devin, leaning on his shoulder. Your eyes droop shut.

“Sita! Awaken!” he says, jiggling his arm to rouse you, squeezing your shoulder.

“Ugh, I’m so tired,” you say, rubbing your eyes.

“Up all night?”

“Yep.”

“With what?”

“Art.” You smile and roll your eyes.

“Say no more, my friend,” he says. “Last Sunday I stayed up and didn’t sleep at all. Got my portfolio finished, though.”

“That’s nice.” You sigh heavily.

“Are you still finishing yours?”

“Trying to. All the AP work is starting to get to me, though. The constant in-class essays and practice tests. By the time I get home, I’m so brain-dead I can barely make mac and cheese, much less ‘show the broad range of my artistic skills and interests in a carefully chosen selection of approximately three dozen finished pieces.’”

“You need a muse,” says Devin.

You say nothing.

“What is this?” he asks, looking at you. “A blush? Has our Sita found her muse?”

“What did Sita find?” asks Damien, arriving with a sandwich and a can of Bluebird Grape Juice.

“Something to inspire her,” says Devin, raising one eyebrow.

“Oh, stop it,” you say. “You know how I am.”

“Yes, but does he?” Devin smiles wickedly and points down the hall.  _Lo_. He is walking toward you, gliding through the crowd as if nothing can touch him.

Damien grabs the sketchbook from your hands.

“Oh my god,” you whisper under your breath. You are not ready for this kind of interaction, in front of your friends. Your cheeks are blazing hot. He comes closer, closer. Next to you, Damien flips through the sketchbook.

“Sita, I like this one,” he says, holding up the figure drawing you finished after Drawing Club earlier this week. He flips the page again. “Who is this?” he asks, scrutinizing the drawing you finished last night. Then his eyes go wide. He turns, looks up at Lo, then back down at the book.  _Sorry_ , he mouths to you, flipping the book quickly shut.

You snatch the sketchbook away from him, bury it in your bag.

You look up at Lo. He is looking straight at you, a stricken look in his eye. You smile. “Hi, Lo.” You giggle. “That sounds funny, doesn’t it?”

He is still silent, his mouth pinched shut. He looks at Devin. Suddenly you realize: you are leaning on Devin, your eyes sleepy; his arm is around you, your hair messed up and trailing across his shirt front. You sit up straight.

“Lo.”

“You left this,” he says, holding out your small tin of dusty square pastels. It must have fallen out of your bag. “I found it in the floorboard this morning.”

Devin and Damien go silent. Lilith arrives, drops her bag. “What’s going on, guys?” she asks.

Damien waves his hand for her to be quiet. All eyes are glued on Lo, then on you.

“Thanks,” you say, reaching out and taking the tin. You crack it open; all of your colors are still there. You snap it shut and look up; Lo is gone.

“What was  _that_?” asks Devin, turning to you. “Him? How did he… “

“Not now, guys,” you say, springing to your feet. “I’ll catch you up in just a minute. I’m sorry. I just have to… I’ll catch you guys after next period.”

You race down the hall, your bag slamming into your legs as you run, dignity be damned. You have to find him, have to tell him about Devin.

You turn the corner and start down the science wing when a hand grips your elbow, pulls you into an alcove by the chemistry room.

Without looking you know it’s Lo. He lets go of your arm, puts his hands in his pockets with his thumbs sticking out. He looks at his shoes, then up at you.

“I’m sorry about that, I wanted to tell you—“

“It’s all right, Sita,” he says, his voice small and quiet. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“No! No. It’s… that’s Devin. I’ve known him since I was five. He’s just a friend.”

He looks up suddenly, his eyes piercing yours.

“He doesn’t like girls, Lo. And even if he did, we’re just friends. Always have been.”

He lets out a breath, looks over to the wall of lockers, bouncing up and down on one foot, then the other.

“What’s wrong?”

He smiles. “Nothing, now.” He steps out of the alcove. You follow, walking next to him. You reach over and impulsively take his hand; he curls his fingers around yours. His fingers are usually cold but today they are warm. Comforting. “You never showed me your drawings,” he says.

“This way,” you say, turning to open the big double doors to the biology lab.

The lights over the fish tanks are shine their greenish glow over the room; the filter makes a faint bubbling sound. Inside, fat red-gold fish move slowly back and forth between the live grasses.

You put your bag up on a wide, black lab table and unzip your portfolio. You spread out your collection of work, everything you have so far. Twelve pictures, finished. And your sketchbook.

“Do you carry it all with you?” he asks, sliding his finger down the edge of a piece of watercolor paper, a sunset painting of the marsh at the end of your road. “This is amazing.”

You shrug. “It’s hard to do it justice. It’s so beautiful here.”

He looks at you. “It is.”

You feel that strange magnetic pull again, and you walk to him as if you are compelled. He lifts you in one smooth motion, sits you on the lab table facing him. He draws his arms around your waist, runs his palms down the outside of your thighs from your hips to your knees. “You’re a very good artist, Teresita,” he says, looking down at your waist, where he rests his hands.

Your heart is pounding. He leans over, flips open the spiral-bound sketchbook beside you. His pulse jumps in the skin of his neck. “It’s so three-dimensional,” he says. “It seems like it’s moving, even though it’s just pencil.”

“Thank you,” you say, your voice shaking.

He flips the page. “Oh,” he says, taking a step back from the book, from you. You resist the urge to reach out, pull him back to you, to lean in and taste the edges of his warm, soft mouth.

“Wow, Sita,” he says. You know the sketch he is looking at. Before, you had hoped he would see it, but now you want to slam the book shut.

“It’s just something I worked on last night,” you say.

He looks up quickly at you. “You did this in one night?”

“A few hours,” you say.

“It’s… I don’t know what…”

“Well, do you like it?”

“It’s… it’s amazing. I have just never seen myself drawn like this. Drawn at all. I can’t believe you would do this.” He rubs his finger on the corner of the paper. He looks up at you. “Sita, you  _have_  to do this.”

“Do what?”

“You have to be an artist,” he says. “You have to.”

Nervous laughter dances from your throat. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, Sita, this kind of thing… you shouldn’t sit on this. You have to go and study this. You have to be… this.” He gestures at the picture. He picks up the sketchbook, holds it close to his face, then farther out again. “I just can’t believe it.”

You cannot hide your pleasure. You blush warm and he looks at you, smiling.

You quickly frown. “I want to,” you say.

“But?”

“But it’s not what my parents want.”

He laughs a dry laugh. “I understand  _that_ ,” he says. “What do they want, then?”

“USC,” you say. “Beaufort. An hour from home. Accounting. Or Business. Or Communications.”

He is silent, watching you.

“I want something different,” you say.

“Do you want to go to college?”

“Yes! Yes. I mean… I want to go to art school. To really learn. To go farther.” You gesture lamely at the sketchbook. “I can do some stuff now, but—“

“More than just some, Sita.”

“I just want to see how good I can be. I feel like I have to try, you know?”

“Where?”

You bite your lip, look him in the eye. “SCAD,” you say.

“Where?”

“Savannah College of Art and Design,” you say. “It’s what I’ve wanted since I was thirteen. I want it so bad, Lo.” You are surprised to find that you are almost crying. “I need to try, to apply. I have to see if I can do it. I really, really,  _really_  want to go.”

“You should,” he says.

“It isn’t that simple,” you say.

“Why?”

You laugh. “Money. Parents. Expectations, Disappointment. Then, there’s the process of actually applying. Of actually making it in. If I even can.” You are crying now, your face in your hands. The tension of these past few months, the weight of trying to decide your life’s direction when you have almost no control over any of it – it catches up to you.

You pitch forward and your head stops on his shoulder. He wraps you in a tight hug, rubs his hand up and down your back. He bends down, looks up into your eyes. He reaches his hand out, wipes the tears off your cheek.

The bell rings. He stands abruptly. “Come out with me this weekend,” he says. “Spend Saturday with me.” He reaches out, takes your hand in his.

“I can’t, I’m with my mom and Richard,” you say. “My stepdad.”

“Ah.” He holds your hand tightly still, looks to the small, high windows on the wall of the classroom. A strange look crosses his face. “Maybe another time, then.”

He leans in, grips you by the waist and lowers you to the ground.

“Good luck on your Physics test,” he says, after you have gathered your work back into the zippered portfolio. You smile and squeeze his hand, dash out into the hallway. You are halfway to class when the bell rings and a chill runs up your spine;  _you never mentioned the test to him. How did he know?_

You stop in the middle of the hallway, turn around quickly to see if you can see him. He is nowhere in sight. You dash to class and slip into your seat, exhausted and flustered. You pull out your trio of sharpened #2 pencils and settle them into the groove carved in the top of the desk. People laugh at you, but you always carry three, in case two is not enough. The extra pencil keeps you calm: your fragile, needle-sharp defense against the unexpected.


	6. Intermezzo

“Boot-Scootin’ Boogie” blares over the speakers at the Texas Roadhouse restaurant as your mother reaches across the basket of bread and takes Richard’s hand, a simpering smile on her red lips.

“Teresita,” she says. “It’s a very special day for us. As a family.”

 _Whose family_ , you want to say. Since your mother married Richard, you have been an outsider, coming to stay every other weekend, forced to take part in “family” activities even though everyone – Richard, his mother and siblings, even your mother herself – treat you like a foreign exchange student. A guest; a novelty. And ultimately, nothing important.

Richard turns to you. “Teresita, your mother and I… we’re pregnant.”

You almost spit your water out all over the table. You gulp, arch your eyebrow. “You both are?” you ask drily, raking your voice over the words with heavy sarcasm.

“We’re very happy,” says your mother, the bright smile still plastered to her face.

At a table near yours, it is someone’s birthday. The staff run out, clapping their hands and chanting loudly. The noise and the news fall down around you.

“I’ll be right back,” you mutter quickly, and run for the restroom in the back of the neon-lit restaurant.

Inside the quiet back stall, you pull your phone from your purse, but you do not know who to message. Normally it would be Lilith, but you aren’t sure if you want to. After Physics you went looking for her at your usual meeting spot by the Math wing, and as you turned the corner, you saw her, talking to Lo. You couldn’t hear them from so far away, but he was gesturing excitedly with his hands, smiling. She covered her mouth, laughed, and looked up at him. He reached out, put a hand on her shoulder.

Your head swam with the possibilities. Most of them were calm: he was just being friendly. She was just introducing herself. Then you saw them pull out their phones, obviously exchanging numbers. It shouldn’t have mattered to you, and yet somehow it did. You thought Lilith might tell you about it, but she didn’t – not a word. And you couldn’t bring yourself to ask her, so you sulked, like an idiot, all the way home on the bus, while packing your weekend bag, and on the ride across town to your Mom and Richard’s place. They met you at the door, telling you they had something to celebrate, and loaded you into the backseat of Richard’s Tercel to come here to this loud, tacky place. At least the bathrooms were clean.

You stare at your blank phone screen, swallow your pride, and tap out a text to Lilith.

                >>Mom and Dick having a baby. OMG.

Thirty seconds later comes a reply;

                -OMG sita. big news here too.

                >>what news? dont keep me in suspense Lil

                -u didnt tell me how serious Lo was

                >>what do you mean?

                -ur about 2 find out Sita. Im not supposed to tell you about it

                >>tell me what??

                -ur night is about 2 get interesting

                >>what?? How??? LILITH.

                -;-)

You saunter reluctantly back to the table and sit down. At least while you were gone, the food came. You spear a chunk of potato with your fork, taste the crunchy skin.

“Teresita, I think it was rude of you to leave like that,” says Richard.

“I had to use the bathroom,” you say, sullen. Not caring about the edge of attitude in your voice.

“Still, we are trying to include you in the events of this family, and—“

Your mother puts her hand on Richard’s arm to stop him.

“How  _nice_  of you,” you say. “Thank you so much,  _Dick_.”

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You slide it out, look at it quickly. It is a text from Devin:

{{Hey, look up.

Your head pops up, and you scan the restaurant. Your eyes widen as you see Devin, Damien, and Lilith by the entrance of the restaurant, barely containing huge, mischievous smiles. Lilith looks down at the floor, and Devin and Damien just gape.

You see Lilith pull out her phone and type. A text comes in on your phone.

-Just go with it

You look up, the question written on your face.  _Go with what?_

Mom and Richard drop their forks and look up. You turn to see what they are gawking at, and your stomach nearly hits the floor.

Lo. Standing right beside you, beaming down at you, his smile wide and false.

“Sita!” he says. Strangely jovial. He bends down, pushes you gently sideways, sliding in next to you at the booth.

Mom and Richard are still silent, staring.

“So, I hear congratulations are in order!” he says, extending a hand to Richard, then to your mother. “I’m Logan, by the way.” The snaps on the cuff of his leather jacket knock lightly together, making a tapping sound.

“Logan,” says Richard, a crease between his brows.

“How did you—” says your mother.

“Good news travels quickly,” he says, reaching his arm dramatically up and over you, grasping around your shoulders. You sink lower in the booth, embarrassment burning on your face. Your heart is pounding. You look up at your friends, who are watching with rapt attention. You remember their instructions.  _Just go with it._

“It’s great to see you,” you say.  “Babe.” It comes out a bit too stiffly, so you take a deep breath to steady yourself. You lean in and peck Lo on the cheek. He flushes bright red, smiles down at you and squeezes your shoulder.

“Babe?” says your mother, leaning back and crossing her arms.

“I’m so happy for your family,” says Lo to your mother. He looks at you. “I just  _love_  babies.”

Richard sputters, puts down his iced tea.

“In fact,” says Lo, “I think a girl… a  _woman_ … is never as beautiful as she is when she is pregnant.” He draws his arm farther around you, squeezes you tightly.

A look of panic rises in your mother’s eyes. You look down, will yourself not to smirk.  _God, this is good_.

“Anyway, I’m just here getting some takeout. My band buddies are back at the house, and we get hungry, what with my parents always being out of town.” He smiles broadly. “Luckily they leave me plenty of cash so it’s not a problem to get whatever I want.” He levels his gaze at Richard, sliding his fingers lightly up and down your arm.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Lo says to you. “Are you still coming over to study on Sunday?”

 “Um… I don’t… that is… I think Sunday’s not a good day, honey,” says your mother, gasping for air. “We have a lot of things to do at home. We need you there.”

“Maybe later, then,” says Lo, slowly standing. He leans down, kisses you square on the mouth. “Bye, mamacita,“ he says, his voice low.

You nearly choke.

"And I look forward to chatting with you both again, too,” he says to Mom and Richard. “I’m sure we’ll have  _lots_  of time to get to know each other. It was great to meet you.” He nods at them, then walks quickly away. He catches your eye for a split second and winks. Your eyes follow him to the door, moving like a cat, where he pauses and briefly nods to Devin, Damien, and Lilith.

“Well, I…” says your mother, still searching for words.

“Teresita, I don’t think…” Dick is at a loss for words as well.

Lilith is approaching the table. “Oh my gosh, was that  _Logan_?” she says in a loud, exaggerated tone, standing at your elbow. She makes a face.

“Lilith!” says your mother, with a gasp of relief. She moves over. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m great, Mrs. B! Thanks!”

She leans over, taps her hand on the table next to your plate. “We’re going to miss you tomorrow,” she says.

“Miss me?”

“Yeah, the field trip. But you’re probably hanging out with your new ‘boyfriend’ or whatever.” She makes air quotes and rolls her eyes as she says it. Richard grimaces.

“Where is the field trip?” asks Mom. “Teresita, you didn’t tell me about a field trip.”

“Charleston,” says Lilith. “Career Day. A bunch of schools are coming, employers, career counselors, that kind of thing.”

“Hmm,” says Mom brightly.

“I don’t know,” you say. “I only get two weekends a month with Mom and Dick.”

“Is Logan going on this field trip?” interrupts Richard.

“I don’t see why he would,” you say.

“Why?”

“He already knows where he’s going to college.”

“Oh, yeah?” smirks Richard. “He didn’t strike me as the college type.”

Your mother elbows Richard in the ribs.

“Yeah!” says Lilith brightly. “He’s going to USC, in Beaufort. His parents already got him his own apartment there for the fall.” Your mother blanches.

Lilith stands abruptly. “Well, it was nice to see you! Sita, have a good day tomorrow.”

“Wait, Lilith,” says your mother, stealing a quick glance at you and then back to your friend. “What time is the bus leaving in the morning?”

Lilith smiles. “Nine in the morning.” She looks at you. “Bright and early.”

“I don’t know,” you say, looking at Mom. “I thought I’d stay here with you and Richard. Have some family time.”

“No! No,” your mother says, waving her hand casually in the air. She catches Richard’s eye. He nods. “It’s fine! Do you want to go? I think you should go.”

“Oh, come on, Sita,” says Lilith. “It’ll be fun.”

“Well, I guess so,” you say.

Lilith smiles and leaves, followed by Devin and Damien.

You reach under the table, text Lilith.

>>I love you

\- I love you, too, my friend.

A minute later, one last text comes in from her:

-And I don’t think I’m the only one who does.


	7. Outbound

At home again you walk in behind Mom and Richard. The kitchen is dimly lit, its wood paneling barely visible in the small lamp that Mom keeps on by the phone. She sighs, turns to the sink, and picks up a dirty bowl, starts rinsing it. Richard walks back to their bedroom, drops his shoes in the hallway.

In the dim light, she looks tired, weary. A little sad. You walk over to her. “I’ll do this,” you say, by way of apology. You don’t feel part of the family, and you enjoyed the scene at the restaurant, but you still do not like the idea of causing her pain. She is so far away from you, but what you feel is a cold kind of chill, not a burning hatred.

She looks up at you, and there are tears in her eyes. “Sita,” she says. “Thank you.” She squeezes your shoulders, leaves the room like a shadow slipping away at the first fingers of light.

You make quick work of the dishes as you hear her and Richard settling into bed. Finally, they are silent as you rinse the last of the plates and bowls and set them overturned on a dish towel to dry. You lean against the sink, wipe your fingers off with the towel slung over your shoulder.

You turn then to your bags, left in the kitchen by the small desk in the corner, from when you first arrive. You pick them up and move to the door behind the stairwell: your room. You have had your problems with Mom and Richard, but you always liked your room. It gets good light, and there is a wide, broad table there. It is usually piled with decorating magazines when you arrive, but after a quick moment of stacking them to the side, it is the perfect place to set up your drawing materials. You have spent many peaceful, quiet hours here, sketching, in between episodes of tense, forced family fun.

You push on the door, and your foot catches on something. You flick the light on, and something cold and bitter grabs your stomach.

A crib, in pieces, leaned up against the wall. The table, piled high with boxes: Pampers in three sizes; a silver keepsake photo box. A large cardboard box with pastel blankets and a mobile sticking out of the top. Over on the right side of the room, your bed is completely gone; in its place, a rocking chair, two stacks of board books, a lamp in the shape of a crescent moon with a cow peeking over the top. A quilt embroidered with a scene from Noah’s Ark is spread over the chair. A framed needlepoint sampler is leaned against the wall by the closet:

_A Baby Is A Love So Strong You Have To Give It A Name_

You stare at the sampler, picked out in blue and brown threads, with hearts stitched in each corner. Suddenly your vision blurs and the hot tears are falling, although you do not even know exactly why. You take your bags out to the sitting room, drop them next to the thick green velvet couch, and run outside, your head swimming. There is dew already on the manicured lawn. You follow the path out by the fence until you reach the sprawling oak on the edge of the property. You crawl up on one of the hooked branches, hang on to the rough, damp bark as you settle yourself. You reach out and wrap your arms around the trunk of the tree and cry, your tears feeling both angry and foolish at the same time.

Mom and Richard have a love they have to name, but its name isn’t Sita. To them, you are a relic of a past life, put aside as easily as yesterday’s newspaper. They didn’t even ask you if they could convert your room. All of your space, your bed? Gone. You don’t even know where your things are. Probably boxed up and in a closet, or back in Richard’s storage shed. You are not sure why it is hitting you so hard; this isn’t the first time you have been steamrollered in favor of their new life. You really should know to expect this by now.

But out here, in the moonlit yard, clinging to the old lichen-covered tree, you feel something in you crying out like a little child, wanting to have a place, a real place reserved for you. A place that you can leave for a day or two, and when you come back, it will still be there.

You have a place with your father: you make his coffee; he halfheartedly tries to tell you what to do, but he spends most of his time sitting silently in front of the television, a shell of what he used to be. You can’t really make life any better for him, and he can’t help you much, either. Your mother makes a place for you, but the place is always temporary: a seat on a restaurant booth, not a chair at the family table in the cluttered little house.

You hug the tree more tightly and weep in earnest, and you feel something inside of you breaking, some part of you suddenly becoming less young, growing up, breaking out of its old covering. It is painful, like a hatching egg where each hairline crack in the chalky shell sends a stab of pain into your tender insides.

Finally the tears subside, and you feel somehow like you aren’t a little girl anymore, not really, and never can be again, never all the way. You take a deep breath. Your brain calms itself, little by little, pieces shifting into new places. In the pit of your gut you feel a kind of hard, metal strength building. It is a little cold, but it seems to glow with power.

Without thinking, you hop down from the tree, run inside and get your drawing things. You move to the patio on the side of the house, move your arm above your head until the motion-activated floodlight comes on. With your pencils you madly start sketching. As the face takes shape beneath your fingers, you feel as if he is there with you, right then: Lo, watching over your tears and heartbreak. Lo, appearing out of nowhere with just the right words to save you from a weekend of trailing behind your Mom and Richard. You feel him almost tangibly at your elbow, his icy breath on your cheek. Lo, halting the thunder with his outstretched arms. Lo, a spirit of sympathy with your strange and twisting ambition. Lo, the teasing trickster, winking as he turns and walks away from the restaurant table. Lo, who is both a burning fire and a cooling wind.

**

You awaken in the grey early dawn, hunched to the side in the cold patio chair. You look around you, rub your hand across your eyes, and gather up your materials. Three new sketches, complete, in the night that seemed almost endless. You stand and take a deep breath. Things are different now, and they are not entirely bad.

You walk into the kitchen, dig through the cabinets quietly. Mom and Richard don’t drink coffee, but you find a box of teabags and boil yourself a pot of water. You flip through your sketches as the water simmers, counting your work; you are up to twenty pieces now, closer to your portfolio requirements for SCAD. The water in the pot rolls to a boil.

You pour the water carefully over two tea bags and hold the mug, smelling the steam while it steeps. You look out the window in the kitchen door. The light brightens bit by bit. It is cloudy; it looks like it might stay a grey day. You dunk the tea bags a few times, sling them into the garbage, and lean in to take a sip of the dark, almost bitter tea. Its invigorating warmth reaches your stomach as you look up again out the window. Your heart catches in surprise as you hear the sound of crunching gravel, and see to your shock the front fender of Lo’s Mustang pulling into view.

You take one more sip of tea, steady your shaking hands, reach down and grab your bag and slip out the door, locking it behind you.

He says nothing as he stands up beside the car, sees you running down the steps of the house toward him. You drop your things on the ground, bury your face in the front of his soft t-shirt. He holds you tightly for a moment, then moves again toward the car. You toss your things into the backseat, slide into the embrace of the leather seat, and pull the seatbelt down across you. Lo drives slowly out of the driveway and you look out the back window toward the house. It grows smaller and smaller, then disappears behind the stand of dark green wax myrtles by the road.

At the very end of the driveway Lo stops, puts his hand behind your head, runs his fingertips through the hair at the back of your neck. He pulls you toward him, kisses you slowly, deeply. He presses closer to you, runs his tongue along the edge of your upper lip, a light moan coming from somewhere deep in his throat.  Your own lips tremble as something catches you, a desire deeper and more demanding than you have felt before. You soften beneath the firm warmth of his mouth. You move your hand up and run your fingers softly down his neck. He pulls back suddenly, his shoulders heaving. He looks at you, his eyes blazing, bright green. He smiles.

The pines and scrub oak and roadside grass blurs into a deep, flowing green in the light of the early dawn.  Lo accelerates madly to merge onto 174 North, away from Edisto, toward the ribbon of US-17. The Mustang’s low hum, the cool air and the scent of raw pine lulls you into a sort of half-sleep. Lo sees your head nod against the window and reaches down as he drives, rolling his leather jacket into a sort of pillow beside him on the seat. He looks at you, beckoning with an arch of his eyebrow, patting the jacket, and as you sink down into its fragrant warmth, Lo’s fingers trailing absently through your hair, the miles slip smoothly by and sleep overtakes you completely.


	8. River Walk

You wake up, the hum of the Mustang beneath your shoulder blades, Lo’s hand resting on your chest, rising and falling with your breath. The whisper of the highway beneath the wheels is so soothing, better even than silence. You don’t want to break it with words.

The light is brighter now, less grey. Through the broad windshield, you see bits of blue sky peeking out between clouds above the road. The day feels blank; after last night, you feel as if you have no more emotion left. It isn’t a bad feeling. It’s like the dry newness of a blank square of white watercolor paper, or a brand new sheet turned in your sketchbook. It isn’t lonely and empty, it’s just waiting for a mark.

Lo doesn’t speak, and somehow this is what you need, his companionable silence beside you as you wake up in this new way; you feel what you felt early this morning, in the chilly patio chair. It’s up to you, now. Life is yours, not theirs. You sit up, lean on the side of the door, the door lock pressing into your elbow.

Lo laughs.

“What?”

“Aren’t you even the least bit curious?” he asks.

“Curious about what?”

“Where we’re going.”

You look at him. “Charleston, I thought?”

He laughs again. “Sita, what does that sign say?”

“I-95 South,” you say, confused.

“Charleston is north,” he says. “What’s to the south?”

“I don’t know… Georgia?”

He looks at you, smiling softly, then turns his eyes back to the road. “Savannah.”

“What?”

“It’s just across the river now.” He pulls the car gently to the right, merges onto US-17.

“Why Savannah?” you ask, searching his face.

“I thought you should see the city where you’re going to live for the next four years.” He pauses. “When you get into SCAD.”

His simple faith catches you, kicks you in the gut. You lean over and take his arm, hold it tight. Tears, again. You thought they were all gone but you still have a few. You wipe them away quickly but the tenderness floods in, and you know that you are finished. Something like love for this boy and his easy belief in you floods out, warms your heart, colors the sky a brighter blue.

“What are you, Lo?” you ask, quietly.

He laughs. “Something unusual,” he says.

**

The sun is higher, warmer in the sky as just outside town he pulls into a gas station and while you fill up he runs inside, pays the clerk and comes back out, smiling a boyish grin, two bright red cups with domed lids in his hands.

“What’s this?” you ask, laughing.

He pushes a blue raspberry icee into your hands. “Cheers,” he says, and you knock the waxy cups into each other. “I just love these,” he says. “Something about it.”

You take a sip of the sweet, cold frost and it sends a shot of headache straight to your skull. “Aagh,” you say.

“Go slow,” he says, laughing. “You want to stay cool, not freeze.”

He pulls back out onto the highway and in just a minute or two the Mustang is gliding across the bridge over the Savannah River, its steel spans reaching forward to a future that seems more exciting now. Far below, the water gleams in the sunlight. And ahead: old Savannah.

It’s a beautiful city. You have only been here a handful of times, despite growing up so close to it. Your father hates touristy places, and Richard’s work keeps him close to home all the time, so your mother doesn’t venture this far south very often either.

Lo parks the car on a tree-lined street and you walk out into the refreshing breeze and the warm sunlight. You stroll slowly along the broad sidewalks, surrounded by the smell of tree bark, diesel exhaust, and the faint barnyard scent of horses that go clopping by, pulling carriages full of tourists, snapping photos as they roll by on thin rubber wheels.

“Are you hungry?” Lo asks. You shake your head no. You take in the sights and sounds, hold his warm arm close to your side. You haven’t walked with him very often, and you are surprised to really see how tall he is; the top of your head just reaches his shoulder.

“You sure? Thirsty?” he asks.

“No, Lo, I’m fine,” you say, squeezing his arm again.

“I want everything to be perfect today,” he says, quietly, looking down at your feet as they walk in step with each other.

“It already is,” you say. A trolley rolls by, clanging its bell.

You turn the corner. On Bull Street the buildings get older, take on a late nineteenth-century feel, a sort of stark, coal-dusted, industrial quality to them, like something out of a Dickens novel. Lo pauses next to a thick, tallish orange-brick building in the middle of the block, a wide archway over the door. He takes your hand, holds it tightly, and pulls you suddenly up the stairs.

“Lo, where are we going?”

He smiles and walks toward the door at the top of the stairs. You see the sign overhead:  _Savannah College of Art and Design: Admissions_.

“I don’t… There’s nothing I can do here today,” you say. “I don’t think they’re even open on Saturdays. Let’s just walk around some more.” You pull lightly back toward the street.

“Hold on, Sita,” he says, and opens the door.

Surprisingly, the building is buzzing with activity.  _Visitors Welcome_ , says a sign. Students your age, most with parents in tow, wander through the building, looking at the art hung on the walls, asking each other questions. You walk to the reception desk and he leans in. “Teresita Harris,” he says to the receptionist.

She talks in a low tone to him and you stand back, your arms folded.

A door opens to the right, and a man in a suit comes out, walks toward you holding out his hand. “Teresita,” he says, in a broad southern drawl.

You shake his hand mechanically, looking at Lo quizzically.

“I made you an appointment,” he says in a whisper, smiling and making a shooing motion toward the man’s office. “Go.”

You feel nerves clenching your stomach. You lean down, pick up your bag.

“Shall we?” says the man, and he shows you into his office. You sink down into a black leather chair and he sits at his desk, opening his hands wide. “I hear you’re interested in our school, Teresita.”

You nod, try to find your voice. “Yes,” you say weakly.

He smiles. “No need to be nervous,” he says. “It’s just a conversation. You aren’t committing to anything yet. Did you bring some of your work with you?”

You look down at your bag. “I always carry it with me,” you say, drawing out the portfolio and your sketchbook. You have never shown your work to anyone like this, never to a professional. You look at the door, wishing Lo had stayed with you. “I’m not done,” you say. “Not all the way. I still have some pieces to finish.”

You stand, laying your portfolio flat on the man’s desk. He turns the first plastic leaf in the spiral bound leather case, his eyebrows raised.

**

Twenty minutes later you close the office door carefully behind you, scan the lobby, and rush back through the door to the outside, the bright sunlight stunning your eyes for a moment. You run down the stairs, your heart pounding. “Lo!” you call out. Several people turn and stare. “Lo!”

You see him walking around the corner of the building, two paper wrapped bundles held in his hand, his pale skin lit with warmth.

You run into his arms, throwing him off balance. “Whoa-a, Sita!” he says, laughing, leaning against a wrought-iron fence. “Sita, what?”

“They liked me! He liked me! He liked my work!” you say, your words spilling out in a tangle. “They said I was a good candidate. I filled out the application and they took it right away, even without the application fee, they said I could send it later, they said—“

He holds the bundles to his chest with one arm, reaches out and runs the other slowly down your arm.

Tears spring to your eyes yet again. “Lo, he said I should apply for their scholarship program,” you say. “He said I had a chance of actually getting it.” You lean into him again, holding him tightly, jumping up and down in your excitement.

“What does that mean?” asks Lo.

“Well, it means I have to finish my portfolio this week and send in pictures of the completed set, the three dozen works. But, Lo, it means I might not have to ask my parents for anything.”

“That’s great!”

“Not even their permission.”

He smiles.

“I can just… go.”

He takes your chin in his free hand and looks into your eyes. “I knew they would like you,” he says. He leans down, kissing you gently. A warm wind blows down the sidewalk, pushing your hair up and around, swirling around your head like tentacles of a sea monster. After a moment you pull away, smoothing your hair down.

You link your arm in his, and you stroll down the street, turning and crossing the busy traffic at East Liberty. You pause in the median and he laces his fingers in yours, jumps out between the cars. “Just run, Sita,” he says.

You laugh, following him, your heart racing.

At the corner of Abercorn and Oglethorpe you pause by an old fenced-in lawn full of headstones covered in moss and grey weathering. A sign stretches over the archway:  _Colonial Park Cemetery_.

“Oh, I know this one!” you say, your voice still giddy. Lo looks down at you. “I remember this from my fifth grade field trip. This is where a bunch of Union soldiers stayed during the Civil War.”

“Union?” asks Lo.

“Yeah, they were occupying here, after Sherman marched through.” You pull him in through the gate and walk between the headstones. You point to one. “See? There.”

He squints and looks at the numbers chiseled into the stone, and smiles, a sort of mischievous delight on his face.

“The soldiers got bored during the long weeks, so they took out their penknives and changed the dates on the stones. Some of these have the death date before the birth date.”

“Oh, wow,” he says, walking quickly from one stone to another. “Here’s another one!”

“And some of the stones say the men lived for over a hundred years,” you say.

“Amazing,” he says.

“Of course, it’s just a theory.”

He turns to you. “What do you mean?”

“Well, even in a time of war, messing with a grave site is a serious thing. Dishonorable. Not a gentlemanlike thing to do. The Union never admitted to the mischief.”

“Hmm.”

“Personally, I think it was Eshu,” you say, smiling. You look up at him. He stops, looks at you. “You ever study mythology?” you ask.

“A little,” he says. “I remember Eshu, though. Papa Legba.”

“Yes!” you say. “God at the crossroads.”

“The trickster,” he says, smiling. “Patron of chaos and mischief.”

“Exactly. Some people think he takes credit for these changed headstones.”

You walk further to a bench on the sidewalk at the edge of the lawn. Lo hands you one of the paper-wrapped packages, a warm sandwich from a street vendor. You lean on his shoulder.

“He was a deity of the Yoruba people, and many of the slaves in this area were from Yoruba tribes, originally,” you say.

“Before they were stolen?”

“Right, yes. So people think Papa Legba came back to exact his revenge, in a thousand tiny ways.”

“Mischief and chaos to reveal a deeper truth,” says Lo.

“Well, the Union did win the war.”

“Maybe aided by an old-world trickster. Who knows?”

You sit quietly for a moment. Another trolley rushes by.

“Do you think it’s true?” you ask.

“What?”

“Do you think a trickster’s tricks can be a force for good, in the end?”

 “I think so,” he says.

“How?”

He takes a deep breath. “Sometimes the best way to make something better is to knock it all down,” he says. “Mess it up. Break it down into its original parts, so it can be built again. Better the second time, or the third, or the thousandth. Sometimes it takes a lot of tries to get something right.”

“Hmm,” you say. “That makes a certain kind of sense.”

“I know it does,” he says, cocking an eyebrow.

“Chaos always comes near the crossroads, doesn’t it,” you say, more to yourself than to him. You think of last night, of all of the decisions threading together into this one weekend, this one day. Leaving old ways behind, falling apart into your original pieces, rebuilding them into something new.

You stand and take his arm again, walk with him to the corner and past the edge of Colonial Park, dropping your sandwich wrappers in the trash. Ahead of you, peeking through the buildings in the distance, you see the broad, flat shine of the river.

**

For the rest of the afternoon, you and Lo wander through the streets of the old part of town and work your way down to the River Walk, passing through old shops selling candles, chocolates, magnets, and tacky seashell windchimes. You pause for dinner in a pizza shop and duck back out again. You pass a sign for the Pirates’ House, pull Lo inside for a tour of the small display of artifacts.

Inside the creaking, wooden building, you lean low over the glass cases, pointing at the whalebone scrimshaw, duck under the weathered sail and the knots tied in length of dusty rope.

“What a strange life,” you say. “On the seas, all the time.”

Lo smiles. “I like the old pirate tales,” he says.

“Oh, I know one!” you say, brightly. Your spirits have been lifted all day, and the effect seems only to increase as the day goes on. “About this girl here.” You walk back out of the museum, walk along the river until you see her: the iconic statue, the Waving Girl. You point to her, standing out against the dusky sky. “She lived here for over fifty years,” you say. “She was a lonely girl, and she would wave to all the ships who came in to the harbor.”

“Hmm,” says Lo, holding your hand in his.

“There’s a legend that says she was in love with a sailor, and that’s why she always watched the ships. I think she was in love with a pirate. Always waiting for him to come back to her.”

“Did he?”

“I don’t know.”

You walk in silence in the deepening shadows.

“What’s  _your_  favorite pirate tale, then?” you ask, teasingly. “Tell me.”

“My pirate tale is the tale of a pirate prince,” he says.

“Ooh, a prince!” you laugh.

“The pirate prince is in exile,” he says. “The pirate king and queen cast him out.”

“Aww. Poor prince.”

“Over a trifle. A small law, not even broken. Just bent.”

“Hmm. Sounds extreme,” you say.

“He is sent to a far, far shore,” says Lo. “Far away from home. So far, he can only remember it by looking up at the stars.  He has a task: to find someone, to fix a thing that’s broken, only this time, the pirate prince cannot use his skills or trickery.”

“No tricks? What fun is that?”

“The pirate prince likes a challenge, so he agrees.”

You hug Lo’s arm tighter.

“So the pirate king and queen release him, send him in the space of a moment to the far shore. They mean it as a punishment; they send him to a hot, humid place, where the pirate prince likes cold. They send him to a lonely place, where the pirate prince likes company. But he finds a cool refuge anyway, and pleasant company.” He looks at you. “A lovely maiden.”

You smile. “I like this story,” you say, walking slowly beside him down the broad paving stones.

“Her problem is something the pirate prince himself uses as a disguise in the old kingdom: her problem is being invisible. The pirate prince sees her, though, and she sees him.”

Your feet walk steadily, your strides perfectly matched.

“The pirate prince accidentally falls in love with her,” he says. “And then he is faced with a decision. He knows that when the problem is solved, when the maiden takes her full and visible form, he will be drawn instantly back to the old kingdom in the sky. So he wants to fail. He wants to stay with her, to keep her for himself. But he knows that if he did, she would be unhappy and invisible forever, and she would slip away from him anyway.

“The pirate prince’s brother sends thunder and lightning to sway the pirate prince. His mother sends winds: gusts and gales and gentle breezes, to test his determination, and to comfort him when she can. But he knows what he must do, so he faces down their teasing challenges. He knows he has no choice but to finish his mission and save the maiden from disappearing.”

“So he loses her?”

“Maybe not,” he says. “The pirate king set the terms of exile: if the prince does his job right, if he does it  _exactly_ right, there is a chance that he will see the maiden again. He doesn’t know how or where, but that is the one hope he clings to.”

“And then what happens?”

“He saves her.”

“Oh.”

“And he loses her.”

“And?” you ask hopefully.

“And one day he finds her again.”

“Sounds good.”

“At least I hope he does,” says Lo quietly.

“My goodness,” you say. “You should have been a storyteller, Lo, instead of a musician.”

“I’ve thought of it,” he says. “Maybe next time.” He laughs, drily. You look at him and swear you see a tear in his eye. But it’s hard for you to imagine Lo crying, and a moment later he calls out, “Here it is!” and squeezes your hand, pulls you to the doorway of a brightly lit bar overlooking the water. Square panes of glass face out to the street. Inside, it is loud and crowded. Brightly colored flags hang outside, whipping in the gentle wind.

“Lo!” you say. “I… I can’t go in here. I’m not old enough.”

“This place is fine,” he says. He whispers: “Don’t worry.”

You sit at a sticky table in the corner and he walks to the bar, leans over and talks to the bartender. A moment later he comes back with two squat, heavy glass tumblers, each with a shot of liquor in the bottom, so dark brown it is almost black.

“What is this?” you ask, swirling it around and sniffing it. A strong odor of licorice waves up to your nose.

“Jäger,” he says. “It’s good.”

You tip the glass up, taste the edge of the liquid. It is sweet, warm, and a little bitter, too. You gag. “Ugh, Lo, I can’t drink this.”

He picks his up, frowns, and feels the glass. He looks up at you, his eyes lit by the warm yellow overhead lamps, their greenness now like fresh grass in the spring. He takes the tip of his finger, runs it around the rim of your glass, then his.

“To this day,” he says, looking directly at you again, raising his glass.

“To this perfect day,” you say, clinking your glass against his. You take the liquid in one shot, and this time, somehow, it burns, icy cold, down your throat, the flavor of a windy, faraway forest hidden in the thick licorice taste.

“Another?” you ask, laughing.

“No,” he says, his tone almost stern. “After this, I have to take you back to the far shore,” he says. “Your mother and Richard will be waiting for you.”

“I don’t want to go back,” you say. “I don’t ever want to go back there.”

“I know what you mean,” he says, “but I don’t want them putting out an APB for my car.” He smiles. “I meet with enough trouble as it is.” A shadow crosses his face.

He pays and you walk out into the street again, the night balmy and close. You stop beneath a streetlight, pull him close to you. You take his arms and set them around your waist, look up into his face, push the silky strands of black hair off of his forehead.

“You’re something special, Lo,” you say. He looks at you, his face searching, serious. He leans down and kisses you, and there is sadness in his lips, and silent apology. A pleading. He leans in deeper, and you press up into him. An understanding passes between you, some kind of a connection and a promise.

A warm wind blows gently over you, caressing your face, drawing your hair back and flipping it lightly behind you.

“You’re so beautiful,” Lo says, softly, and the wind gusts again.

“The pirate queen sends her blessing in the wind,” you say, stretching your arms up over your head, stretching your fingers out in the gentle sea breeze, looking up at him and laughing, your heart dancing in your chest.

“She does,” he says, looking up at the inky sky, then touching his nose to yours. “She always does.”


	9. Undertow

You lean in close to the piece of bright white paper, touching your brush barely to the pencil outline. A bead of gold paint spreads lightly across the page, filling in the empty space between the watercolor sky and the tiny grey castle on the hill. You hold your breath, dot the gold paint in its tiny designated spots across the sky and swirling through the sea. You bite your lip, lean back, put the brush down.

“Done!” you call out, holding both of your hands up high, letting out your breath in a rush.

Lo looks up from his guitar, leans it down, holding it by the neck, and stands up, unfolding himself from the stool where he was sitting. He smiles, crossing the room. “Is that the last one?”

“It is,” you say proudly, pushing back from the table. You spread the squares out on the smooth pine. Ten pieces: illustrations to a children’s book of Lo’s story of the pirate prince.

He had dropped you off at your mother’s house at the end of that magical night, and offered to walk in with you, to take the heat with you if there was heat to take, and you had said no, it will be easier to face it alone. You turned and walked up the steps and into the empty kitchen. You watched him from the window and he didn’t leave for nearly fifteen minutes; he stood, arms crossed, leaning back against the passenger side of the Mustang, watching your house, the door where you had just come in, the yard, the moon, the dark, blowing grasses. He seemed to be watching and searching for something.

Finally he had put his head in his hands for just a moment, run his fingers through his hair, and moved suddenly to the driver’s side. He jumped in and drove away, low and slow to keep from kicking up gravel and waking someone up.

Inside the house your mom and Richard were asleep, and much to your shock and surprise, they never asked you about the day, the field trip, Charleston, who you were with; why you were out so late. In the morning your mother gave you a tired smile and opened a plastic clamshell package of grocery-store croissants, and you sat, the slight stiffness of sleeping the night on the cramped velvet couch wearing off in the morning light from the window, a new kind of understanding between you. She didn’t ask, and you didn’t tell.

That week you decided the portfolio was the most important thing; you left a rushed voicemail for Lilith with a roller-coasted version of the story, of Lo and the admissions officer, of the scholarship application and the portfolio. The mountain: ten pieces to finish in seven days.

After you finished your History Quiz on Tuesday morning Lo pulled his car up to the delivery entrance at the cafeteria and you jumped in. When you arrived at his sprawling property he smiled, leaned in close to you and took your arm and led you not to the house but to the shed behind: a ramshackle wooden outbuilding painted dark green like something at a state park. Inside, the air was cool and three light bulbs burned, hung along the ceiling at intervals. By the window, his Fender, leaning against the wall next to a lamp. In the back corner by the northern window, a wide, flat table, a table lamp plugged in and already on.

“I thought the light was best here,” he said, and you could only stare at the table, run your fingers over the smooth wood.

You have worked at this perfect table all week, the jewel-colored illustrations pouring out of you like an inspired song. And now you are finally, finally finished.

You turn back to Lo, look up at him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Suddenly I feel… completely exhausted.”

He smiles, sits on the edge of the cabinet next to you. “That’s normal,” he says, teasingly.

“What do you mean?”

“When you do something creative, it’s like… pouring yourself out. It’s totally normal to feel empty and used up after.”

“It does feel that way.”

“You’ve got to get used to it,” he says, reaching over and picking up an apple and steak knife off of the plate to his side. He turns the apple in his hands, slowly and carefully peeling the skin off. “You have to find the right balance.”

You laugh. “Okay, sir,” you say. “What are you now, a guru?”

“More or less,” he says. Then he looks serious. “Truly, though, Sita. You have to be careful. Don’t spend too much of yourself at once.” He takes a bite.

“All right,” you say, still a bit confused. “What can I do?”

“After you finish something – a big piece, a leg of your journey—“

“Yes?”

“Do something completely unrelated,” he says, crunching another bite from soft white flesh of the apple.

“Mmm, that sounds great. Like what?”

“Go down to the beach with your boyfriend,” he says, sliding his hand on top of yours, resting on the tabletop.

“My boyfriend?” you ask, a smile curling your lips against your will.

“I might as well be,” he says. “There’s no one else around.”

“Ha ha,” you say, smacking him with the towel you keep beside you on the table while you paint. Your brushes fly through the air, clattering and dancing lightly to the floor.

He takes your other hand in his, leaning over you in the chair. He tastes the corner of your mouth, his warm tongue sliding along your lip. He puts a hand on the side of your neck, leaning in and kissing you slowly. You reach up and wrap your arms around him, standing up and pressing closer. His mouth tastes sweet, and your normal inhibition falls away. You don’t worry about how you seem or whether he likes you or whether he’s kissed a hundred girls more interesting than you. You just give yourself over to the feeling, and it’s delicious.

He laughs, a low, knowing laugh. You pull back. “What was that for?” you ask.

“Can I take that as a yes, then?” he asks, moving to the soft skin of your neck, dragging his lips from your earlobe to your shoulder.

“Lo…” you say, your resolve and grip on logic quickly fading as he pushes up your shirt, lightly touching your waist and drawing his finger slowly down the bottom few inches of your spine. You shiver.

“Hmm?” He kisses your neck, your shoulder, stretching the soft neck of your t-shirt off of one shoulder, tracing small circles on the skin there with the very tip of his tongue.

“I’m supposed to go home,” you say, barely getting the words out. He picks you up, puts you on the table, your hip bumping into the bottle of gold paint. You reach your legs out, wrap them around him, pull him closer to you, feeling your consciousness slipping farther away into the haze of wanting.

He kisses your chin, your neck, your collarbone, pushes the shirt down lower and kisses as much of the soft skin of your chest as he can reach.

You grip his forearms, your fingernails beginning to dig in.

“It’s early still,” he says softly, breath rushing from his lips across the skin of your breasts. You feel your nipples harden, your breath come faster. You look up into his eyes. “But we should go somewhere else,” he says.

You nod, your powers of speech hampered by the rush of desire flooding through you. You feel a pang as you watch him turn, his narrow waist and hips, broad shoulders, lithe frame, the long shining black hair falling to his shoulders. He turns and looks at you, his face serious, his mouth hard and tight.

“Come on,” he says, reaching out for your hand. You gather up your finished illustrations, leaving the last to dry. You lean your portfolio against the wall beneath the table and slip your hand into his. He walks with you to the car, a strange sort of stately elegance to him, as if he is leading you out on the floor for a waltz.

**

Halfway down the driveway of Dad’s house you realize his truck is gone. “That’s strange,” you say, and when Lo has pulled the car all the way up the driveway, you run inside and find no note on the table. You hear a low buzzing sound and see your phone, perched on the edge of the table, lighting up. You must have forgotten it this morning. And you must have been preoccupied not to notice a phone left behind for an entire day. Lo is right: this portfolio project has taken everything you have.

The text is from Dad.

^Poker tonight with the boys at Carl’s on Tybee Island.

Then another:

^Be home tomorrow afternoon, sound OK?

You type back, your hands shaking.

»Have fun, Dad! Tks.

“Poker night,” you say to Lo, shutting and locking the kitchen door behind you.

“Come with me,” says Lo, and you don’t even think of refusing.

**

The moon is edging toward third quarter now, its glow still bright on the dunes and the flat planes of white sand stretching out toward the dark, lapping water. You walk with Lo, the only two people on the long, lonely beach. The powdery sand blows lightly across your feet, floats up around your toes like the snow you remember from so long ago.

There is a slight chill, and when you shiver, Lo leans an arm across your shoulder, pulling you close to him. You come to a small break in the trees, a low brackish tidepool edged by grass. “You aren’t cold, are you?” he asks.

“No, not really,” you say. “I just caught a chill for a minute.”

He smiles. “When you catch it, do you keep it?”

You laugh. “No, no, it just goes again.”

“What about me?”

“What  _about_  you?”

“When you catch me.”

“I’ll keep you,” you say. “For as long as you’re here.”

He searches your face. “Really?”

“Might as well,” you say. “There’s no one else around.” You turn and run then, giggling, racing with laughter. You hear his steps behind you, his long strides hitting lightly into the sand. He catches you from behind, his strong arms wrapping tightly around you. He presses you to him, lifts you slightly so that your legs lift from the ground. You kick them out, squealing. And then he lowers you to the ground, in the soft sand between the dunes. You look up at him, lit from behind by the moon, tiny strands of hair like silver all around his face. You reach up, pull him to you, feeling his full weight settle on top of you, shift lower, pressing. Warm.

He kisses you slowly, pulling away, then leaning in again, his lips soft and damp. He pushes up on your shirt and you lift your arms over your head, giggling as he draws the shirt off and lets it float down to the sand beside you. He kisses lightly down your neck, between your breasts, on each of your ribs, counting as he goes. Your hips rise higher, pushing toward him. He slides his hand down the outside of your thigh, stopping when he reaches your pocket.

“What is that?”

You laugh. “It’s a pen, silly.”

He draws the blue ballpoint out of your jeans pocket, uncaps it and cocks an eyebrow mischievously. He reaches behind you, unclasps your bra, and lifts it lightly off of you. The blue moonlight shines on the bright, untouched flesh of your breasts. He leans down, kissing you there, his eyes closing as he exhales slowly. He drags his tongue over the tip of your nipple, sending a gripping electric shock through your body. He laughs lightly. He kisses down, across your torso, to the soft skin just below your arm, his cheek brushing the side of your breast. He leans into it, smiling, and places a warm, kiss on the soft flesh over your top ribs.

He reaches up with the pen, lightly traces the shape of a heart onto the skin just below your left breast with the ink, the tip of the ballpoint tickling you, sending a tremor through you. He laughs. “Hold still, my Sita,” he says, his voice low, and goes over the outline again. When he is done he leans in, blows breath as cold as ice on the drawing, smooths his thumb over it.

You take the pen back, toss it near your shirt, and pull him to you, wrapping your legs up and around him. He pushes slowly, sliding up and down, his hard ridge pushing into you. You arch your back, push your hips into him, hard, a moan falling from your lips.

“I love you,” he says, a bright, cold wind blowing all around you.

“Do you really?” you ask, your hair catching in the edges of the gust.

“I really do,” he says, gripping your sides with his fingers.

Your head falls back on the soft sand and suddenly you are somewhere else; a huge, inky black sky overhead, stars in patterns you have never seen. A deep purple ocean breaking in the distance, a bright, gleaming golden castle rising above the horizon. You don’t see the moon anywhere. Cliffs push up all around, windows, doorways, turrets, and battlements built into them.

You look at Lo above you, see his hair blowing to the side. The air is chill, but he doesn’t shiver. He smiles down at you and you see that you are alone with him still, the light glancing off his bare shoulders; you are both naked. You look down at your body, see its curves and flat lines and reaching angles caressed by the strange starlight and the reflected golden glow from the cliffs. Lo is glorious; long and tall, muscled yet lean. He smiles down at you, pulls you up to your feet and draws you closer to the dark purple sea. You rush into the breaking waves with him, laughing as the foam dashes against your calves, sends seafoam up that catches in your hair. Lo waves his hand over your head and the dots of foam turn to crystals, fall lightly around you into the water, glowing in all the colors of the rainbow when they fall.

He comes close to you, touching you below the warm, lapping water, holding your gaze, then leaning in and kissing you, his lean body pressing to yours. He slides his hand around to your inner thigh, teases there for a moment, his dancing fingers making your hips jerk suddenly toward his. He kisses your neck slowly, sucking lightly and swirling his tongue over your skin. He trails his hand lower, touches you lightly; you moan, your head tilting back slightly. He presses faster, tracing tiny circles over the warm, wet nub of flesh. He softly moans and his own body hardens against yours as you grip his arms more tightly, the waves rocking you slowly back and forth, held tight in his arms. His hand moves faster, stronger. He slides two fingers just barely inside of you, pressing his thumb against you as your legs and arms tighten around him, your wet hair trailing in the water, a light whimper letting out of your throat, a wave of sweet pleasure rushing over you. You relax against him, lean back and smile at him, a new knowledge in his own eyes and yours.

You draw him back to the shore and lay back on the sand, guiding his hardened length into you, wrapping your legs around him, locking your ankles behind his back. His eyes fly open wide and he looks at you, his mouth open with surprise. His eyes close halfway, his lids heavy as he rides up, then gently down again, low sounds of pleasure rushing from his lips. You ride the waves together, the deep, warm water breaking over your bodies, entwined, the rhythm of the sea and the rise of his hips merging together. You grip him more tightly and he speeds, whispering your name in your ear as his breath becomes more urgent. He leans down, his forehead pressing against yours, and suddenly he grips your hips tightly, pushing deeply into you, a sharp gasp breaking from his throat. He holds you to him, pressing your chest into his, rocking his hips gently as the pounding deep within you slows.

“Sita,” he says, placing a hand on each side of your face, his eyes darting quickly, slightly back and forth as they search yours. “Do you love me?” His eyebrows press together, his worried eyes watching yours, searching.

You nod.

“Say it, Sita,” he says, rolling you over in his arms, laying you on the sand, tracing a finger from your neck down between your breasts to your navel. “I need to hear it.”

“I love you, Lo,” you say, your flesh subsiding into his, your pulse slowing.

He puts a hand on your cheek, leans in and kisses you, desperation in his lips. “Don’t panic,” he says, and the water rises, quickly, up around your ankles, your shoulders, your hips pressed to his, your chests breathing together, your heart pounding against his. “It’s okay,” he says, and the water rises. He covers your mouth with his and holds you tightly. You feel the water rising all around you, rushing up and over your face, your arms, up and over the both of you. Your heart pounds but you feel a steady calm with his weight on you, breath rushing from his lungs into yours, burning like the air in the thin grey mornings of winter. He exhales deeply, filling your lungs again and you feel yourself relax, feel a pleasant sleep roll over you as the water rises up above you. Your eyes close and you are aware only of him, his warm flesh against yours, his arm cradling your head as you drift into deep, restful sleep below the depths of the rolling water.

**

You awaken in the early light of dawn, the sun pressing up over the horizon with a bright orange glare. You blink your eyes, looking around you at the pale dunes, the wind still now, the sky a light, silvery blue. Your eyes focus on your shirt, rumpled and laying on the sand, and you sit up quickly and pull it on over your head, dusting sand off of your arms and the back of your jeans.

You look up and see Lo, tiny, by the water’s edge, walking along the edge of the breaking waves and looking out at the horizon. The shape of his body looks burdened, serious, but he sees you sitting up, and by the time he comes back to you between the dunes, his smile is light and sunny.

You shake your head, a swirl of sleepy confusion from last night. He smiles at you, a gleam in his eye, and presses your hand in his. You can’t tell anymore what is real and what is a dream, nor whether this white-sand paradise that you see is even really in front of you. And leaning on Lo’s arm, hearing his low laugh, feeling the light press of his kiss on your forehead in the early Edisto sun, you no longer care.


	10. Prospects/Epilogue

You stand at the head of the driveway, your feet shifting uncomfortably in the gravel. You pause, take a breath, and reach toward the mailbox, your heart hammering in your chest.

You have been obsessively checking the mail every day for three weeks, waiting for an answer from SCAD. They confirmed that they received your portfolio submission and they said that they would be sending out notifications to the recipients starting eleven days ago. Every day that goes by is torture: you don’t know if you are waiting for nothing, or if you just need to hold on for one more day for all your questions to be answered. The worst is that if you didn’t win, you won’t really know for another week or so; mail service is spotty out here in the boonies, and sometimes things get lost, or delayed. You marked a week from today on your calendar with a big red x – if you haven’t received anything by then, you are determined to call and ask about it.

But somehow you feel like today is the day.

A storm has been brewing all afternoon, one of those strange early-summer gatherings of clouds, dark and dramatic, but they clear in patches and the most brilliant sun shines through: bright and confusing. It is warm outside – hot, really – and the wind is damp and blustery.

Enough’s enough, you think to yourself, and snatch open the mailbox. Inside, two catalogs and a magnetized postcard-sized menu from a pizza restaurant. And a thin white envelope, addressed to you.

From SCAD.

Your hands begin to shake. You take a deep breath, rip it open.

You get only halfway through the first line before you start crying:

_Dear Ms. Harris,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected…_

“Oh, my God!!!” you yell to no one, your voice reaching all the edges of the yard. Tears pour down your face, your heart races, and you feel almost dizzy, your breath filling you like helium. Your feet don’t even touch the ground. You skim the rest of the letter.

You pull out your phone and type a text:

>>LO.

-Do you have news? Don’t tell me yet. Let me come get you.

You pace across the head of the driveway, not even bothering to go into the house to wait. In fifteen minutes you hear the Mustang before you see it, and you jump in, your hands so wild they can barely open the door.

“It’s it! They took it! They took me! I got in, and Lo–” you hold out the letter, shaking it wildly in his face as if you are insane. “Eighty percent tuition! Lo! That’s twenty-four  _thousand_  dollars every year for four years–” you lean down, wiping tears off your cheeks. “I can do the rest with loans and I won’t even have that much debt when I graduate. Lo…” You are crying now in earnest and he just smiles down at you, holds your head against his shoulder, pushing the Mustang faster until he pulls into his own driveway.

You jump out of the car, rush to him and stand in the grass, hugging him as tightly as you can, waves of relief and happiness flying across you, completely uncontrolled. You look up at him. “I never would have tried this hard to get in, or known about the scholarship, if it wasn’t for you.”

He looks down at you, his face strangely pained behind his smile. He hugs you tightly, kisses the top of your head. You hear his heart beating in his chest.

“Lo,” you ask, your stomach turning suddenly cold.

“Hmm?”

“Lo, how much of it is real?”

The thunder booms and he gathers you inside the studio, pushes the door tight behind you, and clicks on the lights.

“How much of what?” the room is silent.

You look down. “The magic.”

He looks at you, his eyes worried.

“You can tell me,” you say. “I just need to know.”

He reaches out for you, but then draws his hand back, clasps his hands behind his back and walks across the room. “It’s all real, Sita,” he says quietly.

You say nothing.

“The cold, the wind, the icy-cold Jäger,” he says, shaking his head slowly.

“Half the time I feel like you know what I’ll say before I even say it,” you say.

“I do, Sita,” he says, still facing away.

“And you knew to come and get me that morning, at Mom and Richard’s.”

“I knew you were up all night, upset,” he says. “It was all I could do not to come and pick you up in the middle of that night.”

“What about this?” you say, waving the paper and the torn envelope loosely in the air.

“No,” he says, turning to face you, his eyes deadly serious. He points at the letter. “That was no magic. None. That was all you.”

“How can I ever know that for sure?”

“It was part of the bargain,” he says.

“Bargain?” You feel as if all the air has been drawn out of the room, as if Lo is standing a thousand feet away from you, even though you could reach out and touch him.

“My bargain. With… the pirate king.”

“What? I don’t… What are you saying?”

“I’m not from here, Sita,” he says, wringing his hands in front of him.

“Yes, I know. You just moved here.”

“No, it’s more than that. I’m not… I’m not really…”

The thunder rolls again.

“I’m from far away. I’m from a place past where the thunder comes from. I don’t even really look like this. Not exactly like this.”

You squint your eyes, his insane words settling on your ears. You want to call out, to argue, to tell him to stop acting like this, to stop saying these things, but something in his eyes anchors you where you are, stills the words before they slip out past your lips. He is telling the truth. Somehow, this madness is the truth.

“What about the dream?” you ask. “The purple ocean? The beach?” Your eyes meet his, and the spark of recognition flies between you. You know he knows it, that somehow he was there, too.

He smiles, reaches out and takes your hand. “That was home,” he says. “That’s where I live. When I’m not in exile.” He laughs.

“The golden palace,” you say, your voice trailing off.

He nods.

“You’re really a prince?”

He hesitates, then nods.

“Are you really a pirate?”

He laughs. “Not really a pirate,” he says. “But I do tend to be a… bit of a thief.” He stands back from you. “I would apologize for these past few weeks, but I can’t find it in me to be sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

He looks suddenly serious. “Sita, I have to go soon.”

“What? Lo, no!”

“I do. They’re calling me back. I had to argue, just to stay for today. Just to see you one last time.”

“One  _last_  time? Lo, what are you saying?” You reach out for him, feel his arms in your hands, as substantial and solid as they ever were.

“They gave me that dream, let me give that dream to you, too, Sita. I had to beg for it but they let me.”

“So what was the purpose of it?” you ask, tears in your eyes, your arms crossing bitterly. “To make me love you so you could disappear? Is that part of the bargain, too?” You turn away.

“No, Sita,  _no_ ,” he says, coming behind you, grabbing your shoulders in his big warm hands.

“Then what was it?”

“It’s food for the journey,” he says. “It’s something to sustain you.” He pauses. “I made it as beautiful as I could, Sita. Asgard at her best.”

“Asgard? What’s Asgard?”

“You should know,” he says, turning you slowly around to face him. “You said you studied mythology.” He touches the tip of your nose with his finger.

Your head spins. “Lo,” you say, shaking your head, but you don’t know how to continue.

“You don’t have to understand it all at once,” he says. He lifts your chin, smiles suddenly at you, a mischievous flicker across his cheeks and eyes. “I have something for you.”

“What?”

He turns to the cabinet, opens the top drawer, and draws out a shiny black metal case. It rattles as he holds it out to you.

You know what it is before you even open it, but you crack the tin open and gasp as what is inside. A perfect, untouched set of 132 Prismacolor pencils, lined up in perfect rainbow order, three rows deep. Your tears fall on the shiny, candy-colored barrels. “Lo…”

“You need them where you’re going,” he says.

“Lo, this is too much. This is over two hundred dollars’ worth of pencils. How did you…” Your eye flies suddenly to the guitar stand by the window. Empty.

“Lo, not your Fender.”

He shrugs. “I have to travel light,” he says, a weak smile on his face.

“God damn you,” you say, gathering him to you, leaning against his chest, swaying slowly.

“Don’t say that,” he laughs. “Not after all the work I did.”

“How did you find me? How did you know what I needed?”

“I could feel it,” he says. “It’s not my first exile.” He smiles. “I can feel the lonely soul burning in the night. Like a lantern. I could see that you needed magnifying.”

You lean on him, your tears soaking into his shirt front.

“I thought I might be able to break through to you,” he says softly.

“You did.”

“But you broke through to me, too, Sita.”

You look up at him.

“I want to see you again,” he says.

“Then don’t go.”

“I have to,” he says. “It’s not a choice.”

“Then how will I see you again? When you’re off in another world? When you’re back in the kingdom in the sky or wherever the hell it is?”

“I’ll find you,” he says, simply.

“How?”

“I have another… incarnation,” he says. “I’m only going back home for a little while. There’s more for me to do here now that I have passed this test. I’m coming back.”

“Am I just a test?”

“ _No_ ,” he says, emphatically, his hands digging into your arms. “But it’s part of a bigger plan.”

“I just don’t…”

“All you need to remember, all you need to do,” he says, lifting your chin again until you are looking in his eyes, “is to stay on your path.”

“What path?”

“Art. School. This. Follow this passion,” he says, hitting the top of the tin of pencils, making them rattle loudly. “Do this. Stick with this. This is your purpose, Sita.”

“Then what?” you ask, weakly.

“Then, I will find you. Some way.”

“How will I know?”

“I don’t know the specifics yet, Sita. But I know that I will see you again.” He brushes a piece of hair behind your ear. “I am absolutely, completely sure that I will.”

“I wish I were as sure as you,” you say.

“You will be.” He smiles, lightly. “Part of me will always stay with you,” he says. “And I will hold you in my arms again.” He leans down and kisses you, your lips igniting with his lightest touch.

“Lo,” you say, but the door suddenly flies open with a gust of wind, banging against the shed wall. You both jump. He takes you by the hand, leads you just outside the door, looks up at the sky.

“Take me back there.” He looks at you. “One last time, Lo. Take me back to your home, just for one last minute.”

He leans in and kisses you, the storm growing around you, and when you open your eyes the air is full of sunlight so golden it almost hurts your eyes. You are in a field of dazzling flowers, daisies brighter than rubies and sapphires, the grass as soft as down. You walk through the field and he turns to you, holds both of your hands in his.

You look at him from head to toe, and see him clad like the prince he claims to be: in gold and grey, with a flowing green cape, knee-high leather boots, tooled metal cuffs on his forearms, a gentle, approving smile on his face as he looks at you.

You feel a weight on your head, reach up and feel a circle of metal, a crown, studded with jewels. Your hair is longer, curling freely down your shoulders, down your back all the way to your waist. Your arms are hung in soft green velvet, a full skirt embroidered in tiny gold detail. You stick out one foot, and see it encased in a silk slipper the color of burnished copper. He turns out toward the horizon, holds his arm out, and as your eyes adjust to the brightness you see that same city again, the golden palace rising high above the cliffs, the sky behind it an aching, pure azure.

He turns to you again, “Remember my name, Sita,” he says.

“Of course.”

“Remember this,” he says, looking around him, at the field, the trees, the flowers.

“Always,” you say.

“Remember me, Sita.”

You hold him close, lean in.

“I’ll find you again,” he whispers, kisses you. You close your eyes, feeling the warm wind whip his shiny hair across your cheek, inhale his scent, like cool, wet evergreen. You lean into the kiss, drinking in his warmth and approval, living for that moment almost entirely inside of his promise.

The thunder rumbles again, and when you open your eyes you are back outside of the shed, tiny drops of rain beginning to fall, stinging your arms and hands.

“It’s time,” he says, looking down at you, running his hand slowly along the edge of your cheek. “Follow your path, Sita,” he says, and a blinding flash interrupts him, sends a jolt of blue light through you, and you think to yourself that surely you have been struck by lightning. That this is so strange, that it feels exactly the way you always thought it might; every hair on your body stands on end, and instead of your pulse and heartbeat you just feel a buzzing, a cold, strange mechanical snapping through your veins and tissues. The thunder booms almost immediately, and as the blinding light subsides, you feel the rush of rain, fat summer drops pouring down on you, soaking your shirt, your jeans, your arms, your hair, instantly.

All around you the sky is low and grey, the color is washed out of the grass and the scrub pine and the palmettos in the distance.

The thunder tapers off, the only sound now the pounding of rain on the shed roof. The water, flooding already, rushes over your ankles.

You are alone. 

**

EPILOGUE

Manhattan, early summer. You run from one white trailer to the other, your mouth full of safety pins, a measuring tape flying out over your shoulder.

You were originally called here to consult, briefly, on a detail of a costume; your metalwork show in Savannah and Atlanta had caught the gentle interest of a Broadway costumer, and you were brought in to work on a few pieces for  _Aida_  and then for two large, grandiose operas at the Met.

You took an apartment for the season, but there was almost no point in having it; you were hardly ever home. You spent all your time on the subway, to and from Parsons and the back rooms of theatres and concert halls, your arms full of piles of papers, sketches, your iPad slipping and sliding around on the top.

Your friend Danielle had called you, frantically, a month before, begging you to come in and give her some support in the costuming department for “the next blockbuster.” You had rolled your eyes at the phrase, wondering what in the world could be so important. You hardly ever went to the movies, but you knew what their productions were like from your classmates who had done internships with the big studios. You took it in stride, knowing you would probably put in weeks of work that wouldn’t even be used at all. The artistic directors were so fickle; their tastes changed by the day, and they never even knew what they wanted until they saw it.

You dutifully produced sketches and a prototype, a modified arm band for a character in some kind of superhero smash-up story, tooling the light metal in just the way you remembered from those moments of holding Lo’s arms in that imaginary field of flowers.

You weren’t sure what to think about him after he disappeared, and for a while you were even concerned that you had gone a bit insane, but for the few tangible bits of evidence he left behind. The letter from SCAD, the Mustang, parked in his driveway still for three weeks after the storm, until one morning it was gone without a trace, and strangely enough, the ballpoint tattoo.

For the first week he was gone, you leaned on the shower wall, crying and purposefully not scrubbing the washcloth over it, hoping to save it for as long as you could. But as the days and then the weeks went on, you realized that it wouldn’t disappear. You held your arm over your head, looking at the tiny heart in the mirror, and one night you tried to scrub it off, pumping a rag full of soap and scrubbing until the skin all around it glowed an irritated pink. But still it stayed.

It started out blue and deepened into a flat, inky black, and stayed thus for the first three years of design school. In the past few weeks it had strangely begun to turn green, first a dark, drab forest color, and now, just this morning, much brighter.

The tattoo was a strange daily reminder of that heady month with Lo, of the sudden turn your life had taken, of how easily you could have slipped and fallen and married a boy whose greatest chance at happiness was inheriting a small fleet of his father’s cement trucks. Instead, you had gone to Savannah and then come here, breaking the mold of girls from your town, breaking every mold, moving farther away from your parents until their voices were just whispers from the sidelines instead of the great, preaching, yowling faces crowding the rest of the world from your view. You finished the illustrations, produced a small run of The Pirate Prince as a children’s book for a local charity show, and received a call a few months later from a director in Raleigh who wanted to use your idea for an original musical. You earned some royalties from that, just enough to pay off your car, and after that the challenge was not finding a summer internship, but rather choosing among the opportunities that came your way. You worked the summer after your junior year in Atlanta, stitching ball gowns for  _Phantom of the Opera_ , and turned to mixed media the next year for the New York opera projects.

Whatever this was that you were doing now, even though it might be a waste of time, would still look nice on a resume, would show that you were capable of delivering on a short-term creative project, rolling with the punches; adjusting and thinking on your feet.

And you still took Lo’s advice, stopping between long runs of wild, late-night creativity for “something completely different,” walking along the edge of the water in Battery Park, blowing kisses at Lady Liberty, screaming on the coaster at Coney Island with your friends on the costuming staff, walking hunched down, your scarf flapping behind you in the unseasonably cool spring weather to the Korean neighborhood to slurp down oxtail soup dosed with hot red pepper sauce, your eyes and nose running, the energy of the city flickering through you like fluorescent light at all hours of the night.

And now you are spending the next three weeks as an errand girl for the real costuming staff here. It doesn’t bother you as much as it should, because you are happy enough for the new experience. The weather is lovely now, and every afternoon when you take your lunch break at about 3pm you walk through Central Park, marveling at how much green, how much rioting life can exist in the middle of such a huge, bustling, concrete-and-metal city.

You burst into the trailer and hold out the pins to Isobel.

“Thanks, doll,” she says.

“Is there anything else you need?”

“You got those cuffs done?”

“The arm bands?”

“Yeah, those.”

“Yes, I’ve had them for weeks. I didn’t know anybody still wanted them.”

“Something went wrong with the other set,” she says. She looks up at the clock, ticking softly on the trailer wall as she madly pins folds of fabric on a mannequin. “Run home and get them, hon. Be back here in half an hour?”

“I think so, yes, I can.”

She makes a grunting sound.

“I will.”

You dash out into the street, racing through the maze of the city, reaching the top of the stairs at your apartment building and bursting into the tiny box of space you share with two other girls, snatching the metal cuffs off of your drafting table in the sunny corner. You pause for just a moment, softly petting Gargamel, the grey-furred cat with agate-blue eyes that Jessica brought with her from Iowa. He purrs.

You run back out, slamming the locked door behind you, and arrive back at the string of trailers, almost ten minutes late and panting.

Isobel is nowhere to be seen, so you lean down, holding onto your own knees and catching your breath. You hear the back door open and turn toward the bright square of sunlight, expecting Isobel.

It is not Isobel, but a tall man, ducking to fit in through the low doorway. Isobel follows directly after him. The scent of thick makeup, hairspray, and leather wafts in, and you feel the sort of crazy, full-volume, cranked-up energy of an actor still rushing about, only half out of character during a long day of shooting. He and Isobel are intensely discussing the drape of fabric, the motion of arms and wrists.

“See?” he says, holding his arms out and moving his hands in small circles. “It doesn’t quite work.”

“Got the arm bands,” you say, holding them out to Isobel.

“Thanks, love,” she says. She turns to the man. “This should help. This is Theresa, by the way,” she says, gesturing to you.

“Teresita,” you say, trying to keep the harsh edge out of your voice. It isn’t that hard of a name, but no one here remembers it.

He takes your hand, and for the first time you look at him directly, his gaze sharp, his eyes a sort of burning blue-green.

“Hi,” you say, and he grips your hand tighter, his brows pressing together in a sort of slow confusion.

“I’m Teresita,” you say again, needlessly, cursing yourself as soon as the words come out. You are never tongue-tied around the big names, and you don’t even know who this man is. You have never seen him before in your life.

“I think we’ve met before. Sita? Is that right?”

You look at his hand holding yours, then up to his face. You nod, a chill burning you from head to toe, icy and hot.

He flushes pink, a warm recognition washing over his face. “Yes,” he says. “I do remember you.” He holds your hand in both of his, running his finger slowly over your knuckles. He smiles. “It’s so nice to finally see you again.”


End file.
